


Moving Forward

by M_A_C



Series: And There You Were [2]
Category: Charmed (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coven Witches, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Familiar Derek Hale, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mommy Issues, Multi, Smut, Witchcraft, Witches, back from the dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-17 09:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_A_C/pseuds/M_A_C
Summary: Stiles and Co. must find a way to deal with the aftermath of "Awakening" and find a way to move forward. Easier said than done when you’re thrown into the world of Witchcraft. Stiles must navigate his newfound role as Emissary to the pack while learning all that he can before the next inevitable attack.Part 2 of "And There You Were" series (Teen Wolf!Charmed AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**BEACON HILLS POLICE STATION**

**SHERIFF’S OFFICE**

            It has been a little over a week since all hell broke loose within the pack, and the Stilinski family was still trying to recover.

            John dealt with his confusion and anger the only way he knew best – by throwing himself into his work, occasionally coming out of it long enough for a strong drink. His wife ( _ex-wife_?) was alive and their son was a witch…how was he expected to deal with that? Living in this town, a mecca for the supernatural, he had never once considered the possibility that his family would somehow be directly involved on this level. Sure, Stiles was in the McCall pack, but he was _human_ up until a few months ago.

John was ashamed to admit it, but he has been avoiding Stiles. He’d work late, come home in the early hours of the morning when Stiles was sleeping, then repeat it all over again. Stiles was his son, always has been and always will be, and nothing could ever change that. John knew avoiding his son was hurting the situation further, but he just didn’t know what to say or how to act.

            Melissa was the only one he would actually talk to. She’d stop by the station on her way to the hospital with coffee and bagels. She liked her coffee with extra cream and extra sugar, but her bagels plain. John was the opposite; he liked his coffee plain and his everything bagels buttered and creamed. On her first visit to the station, she told him about the first time she saw Scott as a werewolf last year during the Kanima attack. She explained that she, too, avoided her son for the same reasons John was.

            “Sooner or later you two will have to talk,” Melissa would remind him. “I’m surprised his patience has held out this long.”

           Stiles’s prolonged patience might have something to do with John’s and Melissa’s coffee-and-bagel talks. She’d tell Scott the highlights, and in turn, Scott would tell Stiles. For the first couple of weeks, their talks focused on Stiles. They were both reeling from the news of Claudia’s comeback. It wasn’t until recently John brought up his formerly deceased, possibly ex-, wife. He didn’t say it in words, but lightly tossed Melissa a copy of the day’s newspaper.

           In bold print across the headline of the _Watch Tower_ , Beacon Hills’ town paper, read - _Safe Return of Beacon Hills Own_. Underneath the title was a picture of Claudia Stilinski. The story read like a summary of a TNT cop drama to John, but it was the story Claudia and Dr. Deaton conjured and told to the local news to sell her return as anything other than it really was.

           The article began by praising Claudia for her courage and determination in being able to leave her husband and nine year old son to enter the Witness Protection Program (WitPro) all those years ago. She had witnessed a gruesome murder of a young woman while she was attending college in Georgia. She’d gone to the police and she moved on with her life. It was only until recently that the college murder was connected to the work of a serial killer. The FBI team on the case believed that Claudia was in danger. The only way for the serial killer to not come after her was to fake her own death. Unfortunately, to keep her safe, she was not allowed to tell her own family - John Stilinski, then Deputy Chief of the Beacon Hills Police Department, and their nine year old son, Stiles. She is now able to come home now that the serial killer is dead. He was killed right here in Beacon Hills after attacking a house party of teenagers that Claudia’s son was attending. The teenagers suffered minor injuries in their heroic take down of the killer.

            Melissa put the newspaper back on John’s desk. Like him, she was confused. “Has she said anything to you or Stiles about this?”

            “I don’t know about Stiles, but she’s been calling me since I found out about her being… _not dead_. I never answer, but she leaves voicemails…” He trailed off in thought. He’d listen to her voicemails every night for the past three weeks to hear her voice. No matter how much it hurt him, he needed to come to terms with this new reality. A reality were his wife was alive and wanting to see him.

           “What did she say in her voicemails?” Melissa asked softly.

           She, too, had gotten a couple voicemails from Claudia. They mainly explained that Claudia missed her and wanted to see her again, explain everything as much as she could, but would wait for Melissa to call her back. Melissa appreciated that Claudia didn’t push to see her or just drop by the hospital. She wanted Melissa to contact her, signifying that she was comfortable enough to talk. Claudia would do the same for John and Stiles.

           “She did give me a heads up on the newspaper. She asked the paper not to contact me or Stiles for a comment. Can’t say I’m not grateful for that. She wants to talk. She wants to see me….see Stiles. She tried explaining everything as much as she could, but like everyone else, she doesn’t know how she came back. One moment she’s in the hospital and the next she’s clawing through wood six feet under.”

           “Did she mention where she was staying? With Deaton?”

           “Didn’t say,” John shook his head. “Just someplace safe. She wants to wait till the media coverage dies down enough to show her face around town.” He looked directly at Melissa. “How does Stiles feel about all this?”

            “It’s different for him.” Melissa shifted in her seat, looking for the right words. “He has the pack to help him through it, although I know he’d prefer his dad.” Melissa looked down at her watch and saw that she would be late for her shift if she didn’t leave now. She stood up. John followed suit. “Scott mentioned that Alan is going to teach Stiles the basics. He’s nearly always at either Derek’s or Alan’s clinic practicing.”

           With a smile and a wave, the nurse walked out of the Sheriff’s office.

           It was later that evening when Melissa’s words finally sunk in. He had looked up from a case file he was reading and glanced around at his desk, case files open and cluttering the space. A silver picture frame caught his attention. He picked it up and held it in his hands. The picture was taken a couple days after Stiles was born. John sat in a wooden rocking chair in the nursery with Stiles in his arms, swaddled in a baby blue blanket that had a paw print embroidered on the corner. Although the picture didn’t show it, John fully remembered humming ‘ _Hey_ _Jude’_ to Stiles as he drifted off.

            John put the picture back on his desk and began fishing his keys out of his coffee mug.

**DEREK’S LOFT**

           Since coming out to his father as a witch, and having not spoken to him since, Stiles has had to relocate his mother’s boxes from Scott’s garage to Derek’s loft. Derek wasn’t too thrilled when he suggested it, but knew it would be the best place for Stiles to practice magic until something more permanent came along. It was secluded, quiet, and no chance of anyone looking in. And the best part, Derek was able to keep a closer eye on Stiles without wasting gas.

            The only thing Derek was even grumpier about was the near constant presence of Lydia Martin. Since helping Stiles vanquish the warlock a couple weeks ago, she and Stiles have become “partners in craft” as they called it. While the pack does…. _whatever_ they do, Derek and Lydia are helping Stiles learn his craft.

           Currently, while Stiles worked on his potion making skills, Lydia was perched on the corner of a table creating her own sort of potion.

           “What are you doing?” Derek asked, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose. The faint scent was causing his eyes to water, scrunching his nose at the putrid smell.

           Stiles sniffed around his potion and didn’t smell anything. He leaned over to sniff Lydia’s and still didn’t smell anything. Must be a werewolf thing, sensitive noses and all.

           “I’m making nail polish.” Lydia said casually, stirring the soft lavender liquid. “Silver-wolfsbane infused polish so I can backhand punk-ass werewolves like the queen I am.”

           Stiles chuckled. He had to give it to them, the combination of Derek and Lydia were starting to grow on him. He already trusted them both separately with his life, but now he trusted his life with them as a team. _This_ was their team - their little witchcraft team - within the pack. The way Stiles was beginning to see the pack’s formation shift was that Scott was the Alpha, with Isaac, Kira, and Malia as his fighters; Stiles, the pack’s emissary, was Scott’s second. Under Stiles’s section of the pack was Lydia, the early-warning radar, and Derek, the familiar. It probably won’t always be as broken down like that, but the majority of the time it was.

           Derek’s head sharply turned toward the door. He flung out his claws and stepping in front of Stiles and Lydia. “Someone’s coming.”

           “Can you tell who?”

           Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He retracted his claws before opening his eyes. He turned to Stiles. “It’s your dad.”

            “Who’s dad?” Stiles turned to look at Lydia and then back at Derek. He pointed a finger at himself. “My dad?”

           “Yeah, dumbass.” Derek took his jacket off the back of a chair. He swung it on. “Want some coffee, Lydia? There’s a café across the street that isn’t too bad.”

            Lydia glanced at Stiles. She got the hint that he and his dad needed to be alone for this one. She turned the heat down to a soft simmer under her pot before getting up. “Sure.”

           Derek opened the door just as John was about to knock. His fist was already curled in mid-air. He put his fist down and nodded to Derek, Derek nodding back. He stood there silently at the door and waited for Lydia to join him before they both left. John closed the door behind them.

           Stiles stood awkwardly in front of the table he had his make-shift ‘cauldron’ (a large stainless steel pot over a plug in stove) brewing on. Random ingredients, a few Stiles could hardly pronounce, were laid out. Lydia’s nail polish concoction was simmering peacefully off to the side. Stiles didn’t know what he should be doing or what he should be saying at the moment. What do you say to someone who’s been avoiding you because you’re a witch? Long time no see?

            Stiles didn’t have enough time to think of something witty or sarcastic to say. John had quickly walked away from the door and pulled Stiles into a tight embrace. John held Stiles to him like he was the lifejacket that would save him from drowning. That was what Stiles was to John – his solace. Without his son, John had been spiraling downwards with only Melissa to confide in. She was right, it should have been Stiles he talked to. And if John, a full grown man, was that bad, how bad could his teenage son have been?

           “I’m sorry.” John whispered just as fiercely as his hug. “I’m sorry I walked out on you.”

            “In all fairness, I was the one who walked out at the hospital.” Stiles whispered back.

            “No.” John pulled back and held his son’s face in his hands. “No. _I’m_ the parent. I should have been the one trying to talk to you and you be the one avoiding me. Not the other way around. I should have just talked to you.”

            “Talking about this stuff is pretty new to you, dad. I shouldn’t have just sprung it on to you like that.” Stiles gave his dad a half smile. “Anyway, you’re talking now.”

            John chuckled. He let go of his son’s face. “Wouldn’t mind talking over dinner. I’m starving. You?”

           “Yeah. Just, uh,” Stiles looked around his work station, “let me clean up a bit first. Derek’s a bit OCD.”

            As Stiles put away his ingredients back into jars and then into boxes, John walked around to glance down at the potion pots. The first one was a clear with blue bubbles floating up to the top; the second one was a light lavender color that smelled floral.

           “What are you making?” John asked, fighting the urge to stir the clear potion with the wooden spoon.

            “Me? I’m trying to create a bug repellant for this type of worm that eats cabbage.” John looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “ _I know_. I’m starting off small before working my way up into the more important potions. Derek’s afraid I’m going to blow something up if I skip ahead.”

           “And this one?”

            “Lydia’s.”

            “She’s not a…?” John raised his eyebrow.

            “No. No,” Stiles picked up his red hoodie and put it on. “She’s still a banshee. She’s just making nail polish.”

            “Sounds like Lydia.” John chuckled.

           “Let me write a quick note to Derek then we can go.” Stiles ripped a page out of some random notebook and scribbled a message out -

            _D - Dinner with the Sheriff. Let the mix cool for the night and I’ll be back in the morning to clean it up. Don’t worry, it won’t blow up ~ S_

**OLIVE GARDEN**

            John and Stiles barely talked on the way over to the only Olive Garden in town. John didn’t know where to start and Stiles didn’t want to pressure him. When they got to the restaurant, John asked the hostess to seat them somewhat far away from everyone else. The hostess looked slightly puzzled, but complied. She led them away from the main room and towards the back. There were two other couples there and plenty of space between everyone.

            “Is this okay, sir?”

            “Perfect. Thank you.” John sat down. Stiles sat opposite of him. And just like before, they sat there quietly, this time with a menu to distract them.

            A woman with blonde curls walked over and stopped in front of their table. She had a lovely smile. “Hello. My name is Britany and I’ll be your server this evening.” She dug her notepad and pen out of her apron. “What can I get for you to drink?”

           “Water for me, thank you.” John said.

            “Same here,” Stiles echoed.

           “All righty. I’ll have those out for you in a minute.”

            She was about to turn away when something caught Stiles’ attention. “Hey, I love that tattoo.” Brittany held out her right hand to show them the angel tattooed on top. “I thought it was illegal to get them on your hand because of the veins?”

            “In the states, yeah. I got it done in Tahiti on my honeymoon last month.”

            “Congratulations.” John smiled.

            “Thank you.” She smiled back genuinely. “I’ll go get your drinks.”

            Brittany left and returned a few minutes later with their drinks, took their orders, and left again. Still, John hasn’t said anything to Stiles other than small talk. Stiles decided to break through the ice before John kept sliding.

            “So,” Stiles said, tapping his hands on the table. “I’m a witch because mom’s a witch. She passed it to me. It’s hereditary.”

           “And a witch is _what_ , exactly? Do you fly around on a broom stick?” He glanced down nervously at Stiles’ drink. “Will you melt if water’s splashed on you?”

           Stiles smiled. “I don’t think the wizard of Oz is a great example reference, dad.” He took a sip of water to prove his point.

“A witch is a human that can manifest magical [powers](http://charmed.wikia.com/wiki/Powers); it’s almost always hereditarily. Like regular humans, witches can be either good or evil, but only good witches serve to protect. Like you, Dad. And contrary to popular belief, witches don’t actually receive their powers from [demons](http://charmed.wikia.com/wiki/Demon), and they don’t worship the Devil. Witches use their powers to hunt and kill evil caused by other supernatural creatures in order to protect innocent people and to make the world a safer place. Just like that the pack’s been doing, only think more Harry Potter. And before you ask, the term " _witch_ " is not exclusive to females. Like me, a guy can also be a witch, but it doesn’t happen that often.” He smiled. “I’m a rare commodity.”

           “And all these people who have occult shops and claim to be witches might actually be witches?”

           “Not all the time, no. There are two classifications of witches – witch practitioners, or Hedges, and magical witches. I’m a magical witch. Mom’s a magical witch. Her family line is nothing but magical witches. Most of the time, people who claim to be witches are just Hedges”

           “What’s the difference between the two?”

            “Hedges practice witchcraft, but lack any true magical powers. They usually follow the Neopagan religion of Wicca. However, some Hedges do have the fundamental Wiccan abilities of casting effective spells and brewing potions, but just simply lack an active power. Oh! And they can’t scry.”

           “Come again?”

            “Scry – _scrying_. Supernatural, witchy lo-jack. I can find a person or an object by using a crystal and a map. Hold the crystal pendant over a map of the area where you think the lost person or object will be. The more violent and vigorous the swing of the pendant, the closer you are to the object on the map coordinates.”

“Like a game of "hot or cold".”

“Yeah, exactly. The pendant will eventually pinpoint the exact location of the object or person by pulling down on to a spot on the map after a certain amount of time.”

           “Doesn’t seem that accurate.”

           “For a scry to pinpoint the exact location of something, usually an item of that person is needed, like clothes or blood.”

           “How do you know all this?” John asked in awe of his son’s knowledge. “Is it just downloaded into your brain after you receive your powers?”

            “Sort of.” Stiles smiled over the rim of his glass. “It’s called reading.”

           “If only you payed this much attention in school,” John muttered under his breath, but smiled into his glass as he took a sip of water. “And these ‘ _active powers’_ …What are they?”

           “Powers are traits every magical witch inherits. Pretty sure it’s blood based; the Book is a bit sketchy when it comes to the more science-y aspects of magic. A power can manifest itself during puberty, as a reflex in dire need, or just whenever to witch is ready to receive the power.” Stiles shifted in his seat, fiddling with his hands. “You have to keep in mind, dad, that powers are neither good nor bad. Just like your gun, potential for both depending on how it’s used. That’s not to say certain powers are almost exclusively associated with either one of the sides.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fire. Normally associated with evil creatures because evil creatures commonly possess fire-based powers.”

           “And you?” John looked down at his food, unsure if he wanted the answer. “What are your powers?”

           “Besides the basics of spell casting, potion making, and scrying? [Molecular Immobilization](http://charmed.wikia.com/wiki/Molecular_Immobilization). It’s a defensive power that slows down molecules to the point where they move so slowly that objects and people appear completely motionless. I call it _freezing_ , but Derek thinks it sounds like [Arnold Schwarzenegger’s ](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000216/?ref_=tt_cl_t1)Mr. Freeze instead of Adam Sandler’s pause-button-on-life type of thing.”

           “How long does that usually last?”

           “A couple seconds. A minute at max.”

           “And you can control this power, right? I don’t want you using it unless you know how to.”

            “I can’t control it. Not yet, at least!” Stiles quickly added, seeing his father’s reaction. “I could panic and _freeze_ the entire restaurant and not mean to. Deaton’s been helping me and it won’t be long before I can control it.”

            John took a deep breath. He had to put faith in his son. This was his life, his burden, and although John was his father, he needed to let his son grow into his own. That doesn’t mean John forfeited all parental rights to kick Stiles’s ass whenever he royally screws up, but John’ll tell Stiles afterwards to treat it as a learning experience.

           John saw Brittany on her way over with their food. They stopped the ‘shop talk’ long enough to eat. Stiles plowed through his cheese ravioli like it was the first meal he’s had in days. John didn’t doubt it since Stiles’ cooking skills fell short of microwaveable. A pang of guilt settled in John as he ate his garlic rosemary chicken like a normal person. When they’re finished, Brittany took away their plates, leaving behind the check.

           “You can pay whenever you’re ready.” Brittany smiled reassuringly before leaving.

            John tapped his hand on the check. His wedding ring caught the lighting. He stilled his hand to look down at the golden vow.

           “Stiles…” John started off slow, not looking at his son. “What do you think about your mother coming back? The story she’s spinning.”

            “I think…I think it’s a reasonable story, I guess. The best way to sell a lie is to surround it by the truth. The warlock _did_ kill people; FBI _was_ actually looking for him; he _did_ attack a ‘party’ I was at...”

           John nodded. He looked up at his son. “But how do you _feel_ about it?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “She died, Stiles. You know better than anyone, better than me. And now, unexplainably, she’s back. All our grieving and our struggle to move past it…just gone. Like that,” he snapped his fingers. “Be honest with you, son, I don’t know what to feel. I’m overjoyed that she’s alive, I’m angry that she’s back, I’m hurt that she didn’t tell me she was a witch, but most importantly I’m afraid.”

           “ _Afraid_?” Stiles brow furrowed. “She’s not a zombie, dad. She won’t eat us.”

            “No, Stiles, that’s not why.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that if I see her again, that if I let her back into my life, back into _our lives_ , that we’ll lose her again. We’ll be happy, we’ll live like a normal family like we used to, but for how long? How long is she back? I don’t know, Stiles” He started shaking his head. He lowered his voice, defeated and broken. “I can’t take that chance. Not with her. Not again. We tried…we tried beating the clock once and it didn’t work. Who’s to say it won’t happen again.”

           “You’re right, dad. You’re right,” Stiles nodded his head. “We _don’t_ know. And neither does _she_. It could be for a week, a month…a year? Who knows! All I know is that she’s back and she’s not going anywhere any time soon. So work out whatever issues you need to work out. She wants to see us.” Stiles leaned back in his chair and hung his head. “And I don’t know long I can keep saying no.”

           “You want to see her again?” John asked quietly.

            Stiles looked up at his dad. “Don’t you?”

           “It’ll hurt.”

           “How else would you know you love her?”


	2. Chapter 2

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME**

            It been a little over a week since John and Stiles’s heart-to-heart, and their relationship was more or less back on track. There were still some kinks to be worked out, but what father-son relationship doesn’t have those? It was around seven in the morning and John found himself making pancakes in the kitchen while listening to a History Channel documentary on the Salem Witch Trials. He had a pastel yellow apron on the cover his uniform from any spills.

            _“Proving that they were the Devil’s disciples was no easy task for the court of the Salem witch trials. But a remarkable event occurred.”_

           John poured two spoonful’s of pancake batter on the pan. He set the heat to medium-high.

           _“One of the accused, Mary Estes, ran for the church to profess her innocence. When suddenly, there was a clap of thunder and she was struck by a bolt of lightning.”_

           John flipped the pancakes over and pressed on them with the spatula.

           _“In the court’s mind, God himself has spoken, forbidding the evil witch from entering his house. The witches were subsequently convicted of heresy and burned alive at the stake.”_

            Stiles walked in and John quickly turned off the TV before his son could notice. Not that Stiles would, anyway. His hair was ruffled, his clothes baggy, and his eyes half-closed as he practically slept-walked to a seat at the kitchen table. He immediately put his head down. John smiled as he put the pancakes on his son’s plate and brought them over to him. Stiles lifted his head slowly.

           “Can I have the-”

           “Syrup.” John said placing it next to the pancakes. “And peanut butter.”

            “Thanks dad.”

            As Stiles was busy lathering his pancakes, small footstep could be heard padding around upstairs. Then came the rusty moan of water rushing through the pipes and into the shower. Stiles’ eyes went wide. He looked over at his father, panic stricken.

           “I-I can explain.”

           John leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He did not look happy. “I would hope so. Who is she?”

           “Malia.” Stiles puts down his fork and turned in his chair to face his dad. “Alright, so it’s like two in the morning. I wake up and she’s lying there right next to me. She just sneaks in. Does this like five times a week.”

           “And then what happens?”

           “Nothing bad, besides-”

           Stiles lifted the back of his shirt. John immediately pushed himself off the counter and got closer. There were vertical scratches in various stages of healing littering the left side of his back. John lightly touched the most recent one and Stiles winced.

           “Does she do this on purpose?” John walked over to the medicine cabinet. He picked out the Neosporin and cotton pads. He took a seat next to Stiles and began to treat his back. “Some sort of were-coyote thing? Marking her territory?”

           “No. She does it in her sleep.” Stiles looked away from his dad to resume eating his pancakes. “She likes to spoon.”

            John tried to hide his smile, but failed. “Looks to me like you’re the little spoon.”

            “Always.” Stiles commented around a mouthful of food.

           “So.” When John was finished, he put Stiles’ shirt back down, threw away the pads, and put the Neosporin back in the cupboard. “Does this mean you two are… _together_?”

           “I-I honestly have no idea; I hope not. She might want to, but I don’t. Maybe it’s not even romantic, you know? Maybe it’s a pack thing? Maybe that’s how she shows her friendship?”

           “Uh huh,” John went back to his work station and poured more pancake mix onto the pan. “And does Malia sneak into Scott or Isaac’s room at two in the morning? What about Lydia? Or Kira?”

           “I get your point.” Stiles sighed.

           “You should talk to her and make things clear before one of you commits to something that’s not actually going on.” John flipped over the pancakes. A thought occurred to him. “You said she does this at least five times a week…why haven’t I heard her before now?”

            “Because you’re always at the station by the time she wakes up and showers.”

           “How long has she been doing this?”

            “A couple weeks now. Almost two months.”

           John nodded. He continued flipping the pancakes until they were golden and Stiles continued to stuff his face while he sped-read last night’s homework reading. Malia came into the kitchen a couple minutes later. Her hair was coming down in wet snarls, dampening Stiles’ t-shirt that she had thrown on. Besides the shirt, she was also wearing a pair of Stiles’ boxer-shorts as pants. She didn’t expect to see John in the kitchen making pancakes and froze in the door way. She looked towards Stiles for some inclination about what to do.

            “It’s alight.” Stiles swallowed his pancakes and took a sip of orange juice. “He knows.”

           John put the golden pancakes on a plate and set them on the table with a glass of orange juice. He looked up at Malia and smiled. “You hungry?”

           “Dad makes the best pancakes.” Stiles said enthusiastically, pointing to his own near-finished stack. He waved Malia over with one hand as he pushed the syrup and peanut butter to her plate with the other. “You’ve got to try them with peanut butter and syrup. It’ll blow your mind.”

           Malia slowly walked over to her seat at the table. She kept throwing glances over her shoulder at John while he cleaned up the kitchen. She leaned in to Stiles and whispered. “He’s not angry that I’m here?”

            Stiles shook his head. “He’d never make you pancakes if he was angry.”

           “Malia,” John said, taking off his apron and folding it. “Can you tell me why you’ve been sneaking in for the past two months?”

           Malia talked around her mouthful of pancakes. Stiles was right, the Sheriff knew how to make pancakes. “Dad kicked me out.”

            Stiles put down his fork. “Scott Tate?”

           She shook her head. “Somehow he found out that he wasn’t my dad, and that Peter Hale was. He got drunk and when he gets drunk and angry, he gets violent.”

           “You didn’t…You didn’t hurt him, did you?” The last thing John wanted to do was find Scott Tate’s body torn to shreds and sweep it under the rug as an animal attack.

           “He’s _lucky_ I didn’t. I ran out of there and went back to my cave.”

            “The one you lived in as a coyote?” John asked. Malia nodded. “And you’d sneak in here to sleep, shower, and eat before heading to school?” Again, Malia nodded.

           “Why not try living with Peter?” Stiles asked.

           She looked at him with eyes Stiles could only describe as vulnerable. “Because I don’t trust him.”

           After a heartbeat, Stiles turned to his dad. “What are you going to do?”

           “I can’t force Mr. Tate to take Malia back in since she isn’t his biological daughter.” John sighed. “But what I can do I offer to put Malia up here.” Malia whipped her head around to gauge if John’s offer was serious. “That is _if_ you want to stay here.”

           “Are you kidding me?” A vibrant smile broke out across Malia’s face. “That would be fantastic! Thank you.”

           “Two conditions,” John held up two fingers. “One – you and Stiles sleep in completely separate bedrooms. Neither of you will sneak into the other’s room. Got that?” Malia nodded. “Second – Talk to Peter.”

           “Dad, he’s Satan in a V-neck!” Stiles complained. “Do you really think he’s worth trusting? Safe to move in with?”

           “Stiles, he’s her father whether she likes it or not.” John turned to Malia. “So you at least have to try and work it out.”

            “Understood.” Malia nodded solemnly.

           “Now,” John looked down at his watch. “I’m late for work and you’ll both be late for school if you don’t hurry.” He strapped on his gun holster and shrugged into his Sheriff’s jacket. “Malia, do me a favor, when you meet up with the rest of the girls, tell them to be extra careful in who they talk to and where they go. Alright?”

           “What’s going on?” Malia asked, looking up from literally licking her plate clean.

           “Three women this week have been abducted near town. Latest one was a girl around your age.”

            Stiles looked puzzled, glancing at the calendar on the fridge. “It’s only Wednesday.”

            “Exactly.” John fished his keys out of an empty coffee cup. “If you want, look into it, but be careful. You guys can go and do things me and my boys can’t. If you don’t find anything, that’s fine. But if you do, supernatural or otherwise-”

            “Report back to you. Got it.” John was nearly out the back door when Stiles called after him. “Not going to have any pancakes?”

            “Got coffee and bagels waiting for me at the station.”

**BEACON HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT**

**SHERIFF’S OFFICE**

John sat behind his desk holding a photo of Brittany Lease. He immediately recognized her as his server from last week by the distinct hand tattoo she was showing off in the photo. Deputy Parrish sat on the edge of John’s desk holding a copy of the photo.

           “She didn’t come home at all last night.” Brittany’s husband, Max, told them. He sat uneasily in his chair in front of John. “That’s not like Brittany, believe me.”

            “What time did she leave to go to work?” Parrish asked.

           “Six. Six-thirty. She called around ten, said she was heading home.” Max ran his hand through his hair. “I-I’m really worried.”

           “Chances are she’ll show up. They usually do.” John stood up and handed Max his photo back. “In the meantime, the best thing for you to do is to go home in case she calls. Can you do that?”

            “Yeah.” Max held out his hand and John shook it. “I can do that. Thanks.”

            Parrish walked Max out the door and asked another Deputy to see him out. Parrish came back into John’s office and handed him the picture of Brittany. “That’s the fourth one this week Sheriff.”

            “Well they can’t be disappearing into thin air.” John sighed. “Send out two deputies to Olive Garden. Talk to people see if they can get their hands on any security footage. In the meantime,” John dropped the other missing women’s cases on his desk, “we’ll be looking for connections.”

            “Knock, knock,” Melissa said as she knocked on the door frame. She held up a Bagel Bro’s bag and a cardboard carrier with two cups of coffee in it.

            Parrish smiled at the Sherriff, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Melissa. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get those deputies on it.” As he walked out the door, he nodded to Melissa. “Ms. McCall.”

            “Deputy Parrish.” She smiled back. He closed the door behind him. She glanced behind her at Parrish as she walked over to John’s desk. “Why’s he smiling?”

           “Beats me.” John cleared a spot on his desk for Melissa to set everything down and sort it. Once they both had their coffee and bagels, John began to talk as he bit into his. It was the first time they’ve seen each other since they talked last week. John filled her in, “Had dinner with Stiles. Talked.”

            “That’s great! How’d it go?”

           “Surprisingly well. We talked about him being a witch, even agreed that he could practice in the attic so long as he cleaned it out and didn’t blow the house up.”

           “Reasonable.” Melissa smiled. She took a bite of her bagel and covered her mouth as she talked. “So you’ve made amends with your son…what about your wife?”

            John stopped chewing for a moment. He put down his bagel and leaned back against his chair. “Death kind of ends a marriage. She may still has my name, but legally speaking she’s not my wife. To the courts, we ‘divorced’ the moment she was put into the ground.”

            “What about this Witness Protection Program story she’s put out? Doesn’t that change something’s?”

            John shook his head. “I looked into it already. Even with her story, the legal system wasn’t notified, so when she went under, so did our marriage.”

            “I’m sorry, John.” Melissa reached across the desk to squeeze his hands. His thumb instinctively rubbed her hand.

           “I’ve had eight years to adjust and move on without Claudia. Without a wife. Now, here she is back from the dead and I don’t know how to feel about that. Hell, I don’t even know what to call her.”

            “What are you feeling now?”

            “Anger. Guilt. Sadness. Confusion….” He looked down at their hands and said in a lower tone. “Comfort.”

           Melissa smiled and slowly retracted her hand. She hadn’t realized she had held on this long. “She said she wants to meet with you and Stiles, right? Are you ready for that, the see her again?”

           “I don’t know, Mell. I told Stiles that we would see her, _together_ , when he wanted to. I don’t want to push this on him.”

           “But what do _you_ want, John?”

           “I want my wife to stay dead….” He lowered his voice, rubbing his hand over his tired eyes. When he looked up at Melissa, she could see his guilt. “I know it’s bad of me to say. I love her, she was my wife and the mother of my child, but-”

            “But you don’t want her back, at least not in that way.” Melissa finished for him. “Like you said, she _was_ your wife. Your wife died eight years ago. The Claudia that came back will always be Stiles’ mom…but she doesn’t have to be your wife.”

            John chuckled darkly. “Are you trying to convince me not to take my zombie wife back?”

            Melissa brought her coffee cup up to her lips. “I’m just saying what you’re already thinking, Sheriff.”

**BAGEL BRO’S**

            It was after school and the Lydia Martin was craving a snack before starting in on her homework. Kira and Malia were saving their table while Lydia ordered the food. The girls were here to do school work and study while the boys were off working. Isaac and Scott went to the Olive Garden the latest victim worked at, looking for clues, after Stiles got a text from his dad. And now that Stiles was given permission to practice from home, he was at Derek’s lost packing his supplies into boxes. After that, he and Derek will clean out the Stilinski’s attic before unpacking the boxes and setting up the ‘alter room’, as the Book of Shadows calls it.

           She was about to pick up her order when the man in front of her turned around. She was star-struck the moment she recognized who it was.

           “E-Excuse me.” Lydia said, politely stepping in his path. “But aren’t you Gordan Pratt?”

           “Yes,” He smiled and held out his hand. “And you are…?”

            “Lydia Martin.” She smiled brightly and shook his hand. It was warm and firm and, most of all, manly. “I am unbelievably familiar with your work. Like everyone else in the world.”

            “I don’t know about that,” he not so subtly gave her a once-over, “but I’ll always take a compliant from a gorgeous woman.”

            Lydia didn’t notice the woman standing next to him until she gave a frustrated huff. She snatched the bagel bag out of Gordon’s hand and walked out the front door. Gordon didn’t seem to mind as he watched, puzzled.

           “Number forty-two! Lydia!” The bag man at the font counter called out her order.

            “Well, uh, it was nice meeting you.” Lydia said, trying to step around him without accidentally bumping him.

            “Listen,” Gordon reached out his hand and lightly touched her arm. Lydia could feel the butterflies in her stomach. “I’ll be in the city for a couple days doing a shoot for Porsche. If you’re interested,” He reached into his pocket to pull out his card. With a pen, he scribbled an address on the back. “Stop by. I would _love_ to photograph you.” Seeing her hesitation in grabbing the card, he asked, “You do model, don’t you?”

            “In my dreams,” She muttered before putting on a vibrant, flirting smile. “But I’ll be sure to stop by.”

            She coyly walked past him and picked up her order. When she walked over to her table, Kira was smiling widely while Malia had two different highlighters hanging out of her mouth like walrus tusks.

            “Who was that?!” Kira practically squealed.

            Malia quickly dug through the bag for her order and ripped the paper off of it. She hurriedly stuffed half of it in her mouth. She looked up to see that both Kira and Lydia starring at her.

           “Don’t forget to chew, sweetie.” Lydia reminded her, patting her knee. She turned back to Kira. “His name is Gordon Pratt and he’s a photographer.”

           “And…?” Kira prompted her.

            “And he’d like to photograph me on a Porsche,” Lydia smugly handed over Gordon’s card to Kira.

            “First the auction house and now this?” Kira sat amazed, starring down at the card.

            “Auction house?” Malia asked around a mouthful of food, crumbs dropping from her mouth to her lap. It hasn’t been more than two minutes since Lydia gave her the bagel and Malia was already wearing the majority of it.

           “My mom got me an internship at the new auction house outside of town – Heartland & Associates.” Lydia pulled out her auction house I.D pass and showed it to them. “I start next week.”

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME**

It was late when John came in. He, Parrish, and a couple other deputies patrolled the abduction areas in unmarked cars looking for anything out of the ordinary. He had gotten a call from Scott saying that he and Isaac hadn’t found anything that could help the case. Britany’s scent was muddled over by all the foot-traffic in/out and around the restaurant.

           He hung up his jacket on the coat rack along with his gun holster. He wearily walked into the kitchen, hoping to eat some cold leftover pizza, but found a plate of Mac n’ Cheese sitting on the back warmer of the stove.

           “I saved you some.” Stiles spoke up from the chair he was sitting in. He didn’t look up from what he was reading out of the Book of Shadows. “Didn’t know when you’d be back, so I just left it on the warming pad.”

            “Thanks,” John said. He took his plate over to the table and sat down. “Whatcha reading?”

            “Nothing really. Just thinking.”

            John spooned cheesy noodles into his mouth. “What’re you thinking about?”

           “How screwed up our lives are.” Stiles closed the book and slid it away from him on the table. “I’m like the consigliere in the Godfather, except it’s to a pack of wolves. I’m a witch who doesn’t know the first thing about being a witch or how to even control my powers. My mom rose from the dead, doesn’t know how or why, and wants to talk. And on top of all that, I don’t even know-”

           Stiles stopped himself suddenly. He was about to say ‘ _I don’t even know who my real father is’_. That would not have been good. John had just started talking to him again, and a blow-out like that would send John back into the bottle. For good, maybe. Instead, Stiles said,

            “And I don’t even know if I’m good. How do I know it’s not from evil?”

            “Stiles-”

            “What about that warlock that attacked us? How do I know I’m not just like them?” Stiles fiddled with the edge of the table. “Last night I asked you what scared you, and this is what scares me. I don’t know. I just…I just want to be normal again.”

            John reached out and grabbed Stiles shoulders, pulling him into his chest for a hug. He held him and said, “When were you ever normal, Stiles?” Hearing a small chuckle, John went on. “Hey, listen to me. You are hyperactive and spastic and sarcastic and god knows what else, but you were always caring. Always looking out for those who needed help the most. You’re always there to help anybody, even Derek when everyone hated him, including you. You’ve been helping strangers your whole life.” He pulled away from the hug and looked his son in the face. “So don’t you tell me you’ve been given this gift if it wasn’t to do good things with it. To ‘protect the innocent’, just like your….book of _sunshine_ says.”

            “Shadows, Dad.” Stiles smiled. “Book of _Shadows_.”

           “Now that sounds evil.” John went back to eating his mac n’ cheese. “Book of Sunshine sounds happier.”

            “Speaking of ‘sunshine’, have you seen Malia when she studies? It’s like an explosion of yellow highlighter.”

           “How’s Malia settling in?” Stiles had called John earlier this evening to let him know Malia was at the house with what little she had. He told Stiles to set her up in the guest bedroom down the hall from him.

           “She likes the bed.” Stiles nodded. “We, uh, had to kind of brake into Scott Tate’s house while he was at work to get her stuff. Not much, just a few personal things along with her clothes and school stuff.”

            John gave Stiles a stony look. “Did you brake anything besides the law?”

           “Malia had a spare key, so I guess it wasn’t totally breaking in.” When John’s look subsided, he continued. “Anyway, Lydia and Kira are going to take her out shopping tomorrow after school. Make the guest room kind of her own, you know. That okay?”

            “We can’t keep her indefinably, Stiles,” John reminded him. “She still has to at least attempt to get to know Peter.”

            “Not indefinitely.” Stiles got up and began walking out of the kitchen and towards the stairs, throwing back over his shoulder, “Just until graduation.”


	3. Chapter 3

**BEACON HILLS SHOPPING CENTER**

           Apparently, the things that made Malia feel more at home were weapons and fluffy things. The bags were filled with an assortment of knives mixed in with fluffy pillow sheets, fluffy blankets, and a fluffy stuffed wolf. While the girls walked on ahead, Stiles was left to carry the bags.

           “I still think you’re going to suffocate underneath all this.” Stiles complained. He had to painfully crane his neck around the bags; he could barely see where he was going.

           The only bag Malia carried was the one with her new clothes in it. Having pick-pocketed Stiles of his keys, she unlocked the jeep and put her bag in. Stiles was beginning to wander away the jeep so Kira and Lydia took some bags off his hands.

           “What can I say? I like to feel comfortable.”

            Stiles loaded up the last bag and shut the rear hatch. Kira had hitched a ride over with Lydia, their car parked next to the Jeep. When he turned around, an old woman was uncomfortable close behind him. Noticing Stiles jump, Malia hopped out of the jeep and shifted her stance to attack. Stiles waved her off after recognizing something about the old woman. He squinted, taking a step closer. He took her hand and looked down – there was an angel tattooed on her hand.

           “Brittany?” He asked, vaguely shocked.

           “Y-You know me?” The old woman asked feebly. “Is that my name?”

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME**

          John rushed home as soon as Stiles called him. He said, quite unbelievably, that he had found Brittany Lease and brought her to their home. John tried convincing him to take her to the station or even the hospital but Stiles said it was more complicated than that. And by ‘ _complicated’_ he no doubt meant supernatural.

           John cut the engine as he threw the car into park. He was out of the car and in the house in two seconds.

            “Stiles?” John called out.

           And elderly woman walked out of the living room and into the foyer where John was standing. Her hair was grey, her skin nearly translucent. John could see she didn’t have much longer to go before she kicked the bucket. She was a walking corpse in an oatmeal sweater dress.

           “Dad!” Stiles came out of the kitchen carrying a green bowl full of soup. He handed the bowl to the elderly woman. “Here you go, Brittany. Malia can show you where to sit. She’ll keep you company while I talk to the Sheriff.”

            Malia came out of the living room and gently put her hand on the elderly woman’s elbow. The woman glanced at Stiles uncertainly before walking off to the kitchen.

           “Brittany?” John asked skeptically. He pulled the photo Max gave him out of his jacket pocket and held it up for Stiles to see. “You’re telling me _this woman_ is in our kitchen?”

           “I know it doesn’t seem like it but that’s her. The old lady is Brittany.” Stiles pointed at the photo John was holding. “She has an angel tattoo on her right hand.” Stiles pointed at the old woman eating soup in their kitchen. “She has the exact same angel tattoo on her right hand.”

           “I want you to be honest with me. Completely and totally honest with me.” John took a deep breath. He walked into the living room and sat down heavily on the arm rest of their couch. “Is time travelling possible? Because if it’s real, _I’m done_. That’s _it_. You’re going to be the one driving me to Eichen House!”

           “Dad, we found her like that.”

           “What?” He stood up aggressively. “Swimming in the anti-Fountain of Youth?!”

           “If Javna’s got a swimming pool,” Stiles grumbled sarcastically.

“What does this have to do with coffee?”

Stiles could see that he had completely lost his father by now. He sighed and grabbed his dad’s hand. “Follow me.”

           Up two flights of stairs, Stiles led John into the attic. The only time it’s been used was when they first moved in, as an overflow for their boxes of junk. It has been nearly two decades since John’s been up here and in two days Stiles and Derek had transformed it from a cluttered attic to a neat and organized work space. It was humid and stuffy, but that could be fixed once John installed a ceiling fan.

           “I’m planning on adding some furniture, maybe a couch or two. Make it more ‘ _livable’_.” Stiles commented as he walked to the stand in the center of the room. The Book of Shadows was proudly displayed on top. “Also thinking about adding a mini-fridge. Keep my perishable ingredients away from the food downstairs.”

            “That would be nice,” John muttered underneath his breath, taking in the attic as Stiles flipped through the book. There were open cabinets all around the room displaying their contents – assorted candles, ingredients in jars, oddly shaped bottles with brightly colored liquids inside, gadgets, lethal weapons in various shapes and sizes, and books. Plenty of books on a multitude of supernatural and mythological subjects.

           “Here.” Stiles tapped his finger on the page. John stood behind Stiles and silently read as Stiles gave the cliff notes. “Javna feeds one week out of every year stealing the ‘ _life-force’_ from the young. By invoking black magic, he gains eternal youth.” He looks up at his dad. “This has got to be what happened to Brittany and all those other woman.”

           “If that’s what happened, and I’m _not_ saying it is, but is there some way to reverse the effects?”

           “The Mirror of Fatima.” Stiles flipped a couple pages. “The prophet Muhammad used it a couple centuries ago to banish Javana to wherever the hell he came from.”

           “Does the book tell you who or _where_ he is?” John asked skeptically.

           Stiles was saved from answering by his phone ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw that it was Lydia calling. Just when you needed to find a killer, who calls you but a Banshee? He pressed speaker.

            “ _Stiles. I felt something. Something bad.”_ Lydia whispered into her phone, terrified. “ _I-I came here to get my picture taken by Gordon at the warehouse and when I got here I_ felt it _. Stiles…someone is about to die here.”_

            “Make sure it’s not you, Lydia.” John told her sternly. “Get back in your car and get the hell out of there. Okay?”

            _“Okay. Stay on the line?”_

           “Always,” Stiles said.

From his end, they could hear Lydia’s high heels clacking against the pavement. She opened her car door, got inside, and shut it. They heard the beep of her locking the doors. A low moan could be heard coming from the background. Sounds of a struggle came through along with Lydia’s muffled screaming.

            “Lydia?” Stiles shouted down at his phone. “Lydia!”

           The call cut off. The dead dial tone floated thick through the air. Stiles immediately pushed past his dad and bolted down the stairs. When he came into the kitchen, Malia saw the worried expression on his face. She stood up, prepared for an attack.

           “What’s going on?”

           “Lydia’s been taken.” He began to dial Scott’s number, but John hand came out and took his phone away. “Dad, we need the pack to find out where she is!”

           John ignored the comment and turned to Malia. “Before the call was cut off, Lydia said she was about to get her photo taken by a man named Gordon. Did she say anything to you about it?”

           “Yeah, we met him at the coffee shop after school yesterday.” Malia’s eyes darted around the ground as she recalled the event. “She was waiting in line for our order when she recognized him. They talked and he handed her a card before leaving.”

           “Do you remember what it said?”

            Malia did John one better. She grabbed a napkin from the napkin holder on the table and began to write down the information from the card. She handed it to John.

            “Gordon Pratt. 78 Waterfront Blvd.”

           When Brittany heard this, her eyes rolled back and she slumped in her chair. John pulled her upright in the chair, gently shaking her shoulders. Without looking behind him, he handed Stiles his phone back.

            “Call Melissa.”

           As Stiles called Melissa and told her about the old woman probably dying in his kitchen, John managed to rouse her awake. Her eyes fluttered slowly before opening.

           “Brittany,” John said softly, taking her hand. “Do you recognize that address? Do you know Gordon Pratt?”

           “Javna….” She muttered ominously. Her eyes went wide in horror before fainting again.

           Stiles hung up with Melissa. “She’s in her way.”

            “Good,” John pulled away, and moved Stiles to take his place holding Brittany’s hand. John pulled out his own phone and dialed the station. “Parrish, Lydia Martin has been taken by the stalker. His name is Gordon Pratt.”

           _“Yes, sir,”_ Parrish answered, flipping pages in a file. “ _ATM footage came through with a man leaving the abduction site with the first victim. Still running his face. You think it’s him?”_

           “We’ll know when we get Lydia. Send back-up to 78 Waterfront Blvd. I’m already enroute.” John hung up. He turned to Malia. “Stay here with Brittany and Melissa until we call.”

           “I can help!” Malia argued. She would have stomped her foot if she thought that would help her case.

           “You are. By _staying here_ and waiting for our call.” John patted Stiles on his shoulder and they were off. Dejected, Malia knelt back down to the floor and held on to Brittany’s hand.

**78 WATERFRONT BLVD.**

Lydia’s Toyota Prius sat in front of the warehouse, front door open and lights still on. John parked his squad car behind her. Derek’s Camero pulled in right next to them. John shot Stiles and unhappy look as he got out of the car.

           “We need the help.” Stiles said, waving his phone. Derek, feeling Stiles distress through the bond, had called. Stiles cancelled it and sent his a text instead.

           “How do you want to play this?” Derek asked, walking over.

           Lydia’s scream came from inside. John quickly un-holstered his gun and lead the way in. It took seconds for Derek to transform his hands and face into his lethal werewolf form. John stood off to the side of the main door, Stiles right behind him, and motioned Derek to the door. With one strong kick, the door opened for Derek.

           In the center of the warehouse, Lydia was tied down to an illuminated table with black candles burning in a circle around it. Slowing approaching the table was an elderly man in a leather jacket. His hair was white wisps, scarcely covering his grey speckled head. His skin was wrinkled and sagging from his bones. When he turned to the three men at the door, his dead eyes glowed red.

           “Javna…” Stiles breathed. It was as if the painting in the Book of Shadows had come to life.

            John didn’t take any chances. He shot twice, both bullets hitting Javna square in the chest. The impact caused Javna to stumble back far enough so Stiles could dash over to Lydia. Unfortunately, the bullets only slowed Javna down only for a moment.

           He turned his gaze upon John. Red laser-light light shot from Javna’s eyes and impacted John’s. John stood perfectly still, like he was in a trance or something. He dropped his gun. With every step Javna took closer, the older John became. His hair began to grey, his skin began to sink, and his clothes appeared to no longer fit him.

            Derek leapt out, tackling Javna to the ground. The trance broke over John and he fell to the ground. Javna not only drained whatever youth he could from John, but also his strength. As Derek fought off Javna, being careful not to let his eyes make a connection, Stiles hurried to untie Lydia. He got one hand free before Lydia shoved him off.

            “The mirror!” She shouted, pointing to the ornate mirror on the edge of the table. “Use the mirror!”

           Stiles backed off of Lydia to get the mirror. It was the Mirror of Fatima, the one object that could destroy Javna.

            “Derek!” Stiles called out.

           Derek forcefully kicked Javna in the chest to distract him. He held out his hand and caught the mirror when Stiles threw it. He strategically places it between his face and Javna’s just as Javna shoots the red-lasers out of his eyes. They bounce off the mirror and impact Javna.

            That alone won’t finish Javna off, but it momentarily stunned him. He held his head in his hands, wailing at the pain. Derek rusheed over to John and picked him up, dragging him over to the group. Just as Lydia untied herself and got off the table, Derek placed John on it.

           “Please tell me you know how to kill him.” Lydia said. She leaned over John to take his pulse. It was weak and deteriorating. He wouldn’t last much longer.

           “Think so,” Stiles unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket, ignoring the withering stare from Lydia, and took the mirror from Derek. He held it out in front of him and read aloud -

_Evil eyes look unto thee,_

_May they soon extinguish be,_

_Bend thy will to my power,_

_Eye of Earth, evil and accursed._

 

           Javna attempted to stop him by shooting his laser-eyes at them, but it only reflected back. Stiles repeated the incantation over again, this time with more feeling. He let his anger brew and his power manifest within him. It made his spell stronger.

           Like the warlock before, white light appeared inside Javna, filling him. His head flung back as it shot through his open mouth and his eyes. Horribly painful screams that filled the air where cut short once the light disappeared. Javna fell to the ground, his appearance back to human form.

           It was silent in the warehouse except for the distance sound of police sirens. John began to stir behind them. Like Javna’s human form, Gordon Pratt, John was once again back to normal. Derek helped him sit up.

           “I miss all the action?” John asked groggily, rubbing his chest.

           “You could say that…” Lydia sighed. She let out a laugh and smiled. She threw her arms around Stiles neck as she laughed. Stiles hugged her back. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

           “Anytime.” He said. He pulled back and smiled at her. “Keep hanging around me and we’ll all probably die from me being sarcastic at the wrong time.”

           Lydia pulled back and not too gently punched him in the chest. Derek laughed and started walking out of the warehouse with the Mirror of Fatima in hand. He had spent the afternoon wielding a weapons chest to keep anything dangerous protected for Stiles. The mirror would make a lovely first item.

Lydia jogged up to Derek, leaving the father-son team together. John swung his legs off the side of the table and hopped down. Stiles didn’t expect it, but John put his hand on his son’s shoulder and smiled.

           “Proud of you.”

**BEACON HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT**

**SHERIFF’S OFFICE**

           After exiting the warehouse, they were swarmed by the back-up John had called for. Normally, this type of lateness in responding to a situation would piss John off, but this time he was grateful. After Lydia gave her portion of the story – she came to get her picture taken by Gordon Pratt, but she got a bad feeling when she saw the inside of the warehouse and called Stiles; the call went dead, but not before she could tell them who she was with. Pratt attacked her and she doesn’t remember much afterwards.

            That’s where John’s “official” statement came in. He called Parrish and came straight to the warehouse. Stiles and Derek followed because they wanted to make sure Lydia was okay. John went in and saw Lydia tied to a table, unconscious, with Gordon Pratt standing over her with a knife. John had no choice but to shoot him.

           The official cause of death will be two gunshots to the chest. Gordon Pratt will be accused of kidnapping and attempted murder.

           John got in his cruiser and headed back to the station while Stiles and Derek followed Lydia home safely. When he got to the station, he was pleasantly surprised to see Brittany Lease, young and beautiful again, reunited with her husband. John overheard her statement as he walked by -

            “The last thing I remember was leaving work. A man came up to me and said his car had died and wanted to know if he could jump start it with mine. I said yes. Then…. _nothing_. That was two days ago?”

           John could see through the widow of his office that Melissa was waiting for him. She saw him and held up a cup of coffee. He smiled. She handed him the cup as he walked through his office door.

           “One moment she’s an old woman and the next…” Melissa sighed. She sat down on his couch. John took a seat next to her and sipped his coffee.

           “I know how that feels,” John murmured, rubbing his chest again.

           “So,” Melissa curled her feet under her on the couch, angled her body towards him, and cupped her coffee in both hands. “What happed?”

            “Gordon Pratt, the fashion photographer, was a supernatural creature by the name of Javna. He drains women of their youth and beauty. They turn into old women and die a couple days later. He’s been doing it for centuries apparently.”

           “Well thank God you stopped him.”

            John shook his head. “I only slowed him down. Stiles was the one who finished him off. He and is two other partners in crime.”

            “Wouldn’t it be ‘partners in witchcraft’ now?” Melissa mused. John chuckled. “Anyway,” She reached over and patted John’s hand, “congrats on the new house guest. Malia told me you were letting her stay there.”

           “It’s only temporary,” John reminded her. “Once she gets to know her father, she promised she’d move in with him.”

           “We _are_ talking about Peter Hale, right?”

           “Even if he is…like he _usually_ is, he’s still her father. Legally speaking, I’m not even allowed to have her stay with me without his consent.”

           “You could always adopt her,” Melissa smiled as John snorted. “But that would make you a copy-cat. Adopting stray weres from shitty parents is my thing.”

           “Well I know where you can find one,” John chuckled. “I’m fine with my hyperactive witch, thank you.”

           Melissa raised he coffee cup in a toast. “To be pack parents whether we like it or not.”

           John touched his cup to hers. “To pack parents.”


	4. Chapter 4

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME - 11:30 P.M.**

           John Stilinski was too tense to sleep. He’s been spending the last couples hours lying awake in bed, starring at the ceiling, thinking about the stacks of case files sitting in his filling cabinet he’s earmarked as ‘possibly supernatural’. Doctor Alan Deaton has been saying that the Nemeton’s awakening has become a supernatural beacon – just as it once was when the town was founded, hence the town’s name ‘Beacon Hills’.

           To take his mind off matters, he grappled for the TV remote on his nightstand and turned on the TV. He flicked through channels for the better part of a half hour before settling on FX. Kill Bill vol. 1 was winding down, but he could at least catch a few action scenes before the credits.

            By the time the credits were rolling and the movie had ended, John was dozing in and out when the time the next movie come on – Dracula 2000. When he realized what he was watching, a thought occurred to him. He rolled on his side to reach across the nightstand again for his cell phone and hit three on his speed dial.

           _“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”_ The voice on the other end of the line said coyly.

           “Shouldn’t you be working?” John replied with a smile.

           _“Touché; but if the Sheriff calls you, you should answer.”_ John could hear the hospital’s intercom in the background. _“Besides, I’m on a sandwich break.”_

           “Ham and mayo?”

           _“Oh, you know me too well.”_

           “It’s only been two decades.” On the TV, an actor was screaming. John quickly hit the mute button.

           _“What was that?”_

          “Some movie that came on,” John hit the info button on his remote to get the details. “’Dracula 2000’ with Gerard Butler.”

           Melissa made a disgruntled noise. “ _That wasn’t one of his best.”_

           “I have a serious question. And I don’t want you to think any less of me for saying this but…” John too a deep breath. “Do you think Dracula is real?”

           It was quiet for a moment on Melissa’s side of the line before she burst out laughing. “ _Are you serious, John? You’re calling at one in the morning to know if vampires are real?”_

           “Yes, I’m serious. I mean, your boys are werewolves, my son’s a witch…..we’ve had lizard people, and dark Japanese spirts, and ninjas roaming around killing people. How can you not think Dracula might be real?”

           “ _I don’t know about_ Dracula _….vampires, maybe, but not Dracula.”_

           At the hospital, Melissa was comfortably reclined in a chair at the nurses’ station, eating her sandwich and talking to John. It was unusually quiet for the emergency room. She put down her sandwich and stood up. She could feel something was about to happen.

           _“John. I’m going to have to call you back.”_

Out of nowhere, a shirtless and barefoot young man with blood staining his hands up to his elbows walked through the emergency room doors. He smeared blood on the glass as he entered. He collapsed on the floor after two steps.

**BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL - LACROSSE PRACTICE**

            “Of course you’re still the team captain,” Stiles was telling Scott encouragingly as they walked onto the lacrosse field for morning practice before school. “You got your grades up just like coach told you too, right?”

           “Yeah, but he never told me I was back on the team. He just told me to show up for tryouts today.”

           “We have bigger things to deal with anyway,” Stiles waved off Scott’s concerns.

            “Like what?” Isaac asked, joining them beside the bleachers. He dropped his bags and gripped his stick. “You’re the one with control issues.”

           “Over my _magical powers_.” Stiles stressed. “It’s not like there’s a handbook.”

           “No, but there’s your mom. She had the same powers before she died, right?” Scott asked. “Why don’t you talk to her about it?”

           “No. No way,” Stiles shook his head and dug his cleats into the ground. “My dad and I just started talking again. This whole ‘your son’s a witch and your wife’s not dead’ roller-coaster has been hard on him. And on top of all that, he’s still paying for an MRI and a trip to Eichen House.”

           “Another notice?” Isaac asked.

            “Yeah, this one said ‘final’.”

           “Not to add to your problems or anything, but our status on the lacrosse team just became one of them.” Scott hesitantly said, pointing over Stiles’ and Isaac’s shoulders to the field.

           On the field, were two players, shoulder width apart, scooping up and throwing balls at the single man in the goal. One right after the other, the shooters were relentless. What was amazing about this was the player in the goal. He moved fluidly like it was a well-choreographed dance. He never failed to catch a ball; nothing got past him.

           “Who the hell is that?” Stiles asked incredulously.

           Like a slow-motion scene out of Baywatch, the player removed his helmet and smiled. He was a baby-faced freshman of all things.

           “Maybe we should practice…” Isaac trailed off as he headed to the field.

**BEACON HILLS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL**

           Once the body bags had been placed on the cool steel tables, John ushered out the M.E assistant out of the room before he could prep the bodies for autopsy. He had given Melissa a ‘heads-up’ text while on his way over to the hospital.

            Melissa walked in a couple minutes later wearing purple scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck. Her wiry black hair was pulled out of her face in a ponytail, accenting her sharp features and the dark circle forming under her eyes.

           “Hey Mell. Sorry to call you in on this, but I need another set of eyes that know what to look for.”

           “And what is it that we should be looking for?” She asked as she unzipped the first black body bag. What was left of Mrs. Walcott’s nightgown seemed to cover her parts modestly. The only section of her exposed was her midsection. And by exposed – her skin ripped open and her organs in plain view.

           Melissa took a deep breath as she let go of the bag. “Now I know why he hasn’t said a word to the physiologist.”

           “He’s going to be in shock for a while, isn’t he?”

           Melissa looked over at him and nodded. She shifted her gaze back to the two other black bags on the tables. “This was his whole family?”

           “Mother, Shannon Walcott. Father, Brendan Walcott. Older brother, Jason Walcott.” John placed his hands on the steel table to lean against. “Sean was the youngest and only one to get away. Question is, from who?”

           “From _what_ ,” Melissa pulled the bag away from Shannon Walcott’s body and adjusted the overhead light. She pointed out the victim’s midsection. “See how the skin is jagged where it was cut? And the deep slashes on her arms and neck?”

            “Claw marks.” John said. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Damn.”

            “That’s not all….” Melissa’s voice dropped almost into a whisper as she leaned in closer to Shannon Walcott’s body. She maneuvered the light closer and peered through the magnifying glass attached.

           “What is it?”

           Melissa leaned away and gestured to the body. “See for yourself.”

            John leaned down to look through the magnifying glass. He could see Shannon Walcott’s organs, or what was left of them. He was about to give up and have Melissa just explain it to him, but then he noticed it. He pulled away and looked down curiously at the body.

            “Bite marks?”

           “I think so, but instead of teeth or four canine marks like werewolves, each individual mark is serrated and fixedly pointed.” Melissa pulled the light away. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d saw it was a small shark bite.”

           John took a step away from the table and crossed his arms. “Just this once, I was hoping to not have to-”

           “-involve the boys?” Melissa finished his sentence.

           “Yeah.” He gestured to the bodies on the tables. “And here I was hoping this was everyday murder. Give the boys a day off from the world of murder and massacres.”

           “When do we get a day off?” Melissa asked, tilting her head slightly and smiling.

**BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL**

“You said I only had to try it. That if I didn’t like it I didn’t have to do it.”

            “Yeah, well, I lied.”

            Stiles was forcibly pushing Malia into their math class as she struggled against him. Being new at nearly everything school related, she was picking up certain subjects better than others…..like lunch and free time. The classes she struggled most with were math and history.

           “I hate math. It’s pointless.”

            “It’s school.” Stiles guided her to their seats beside Lydia. “School is important and math is essential.”

           “To what?” Malia asked quietly, nervously starring at the complicated problem on the chalk board.

           “Helps you tip at restaurants.” Stiles winked.

           That comment gave Lydia pause. She turned around, full sassy-bitch-face mode. “And less important things like medicine, economics, engineering…”

           “ _Tipping_ ,” Stiles stressed, patting Malia’s shoulder encouragingly.

           “All right. Volunteers to the board.” The teacher turned around and began pointing out students. “Lydia. Diego. Malia.”

           “Um…I didn’t volunteer.” Malia said, sinking down in her seat.

            “No, we were volun- _told_. Up.”

            As the other two got up, Malia turned around to growl under her breath at Stiles. He would have been slightly worried if it wasn’t for the text message that vibrated in his pocket. He glanced around the room, noticing the teacher was busy helping a student across the classroom, before pulling out his phone. The message was from his dad –

            _Supernatural attack last night. Killed a family, leaving one alive. Claw marks on bodies, shark-like teeth marks on organs. Ask around the pack for any creature that eats human organs, will you? Your sunshine book, too._

            Stiles was about to text back when a second message came in.

            _DON’T GET INVOLVED_

            Stiles was jittery the rest of the period. He tried texting Malia or Lydia about it, even tried passing a note, but the teacher seemed to hover around their section of the class for the next thirty minutes of class.

            When the bell rang, Malia and Lydia went the opposite way to class while Stiles raced down the hall to find Scott by his locker talking to his girlfriend.

            “And before you say anything,” Scott started off when he spotted Stiles jogging down the hall, “I already know.”

            “How do you already know?” Stiles lightly panted.

            “You dad brought my mom in on the case. She texted me the details.”

           “So we’re helping, right?”

            “Mom said to keep out of it.” Scott shut his locker. “And I’m pretty sure your dad said the same thing.”

            “Has that ever stopped us before? Come on, let’s go.” Stiles turned around, but Scott grabbed his book bag and pulled him back.

            “We’ve got Econ. in five minutes.”

            “Right, I forgot about your short-term memory loss. You missed the part about the supernatural creature that _killed_ an entire family, slashed them to bits, and _ate_ their organs.”

           “No. But you must’ve forgotten your dad’s the Sheriff. He wants us to stay out of it.”

           “There’s something eating people’s _organs_!” Stiles raised his voice, drawing disturbed looks from those around him. “Are you telling me we’re not going to do anything about it?”

            “Maybe we should let the adults handle this one.” Kira said. “You never know, Beacon Hills might just have a normal cannibal. Like Hannibal Lector, or something.”

            “’Normal cannibal’…two words that should never be placed together in a sentence and be found comforting.” Stiles glanced from Scott to Kira and then back to Scott. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You want to stay in school and go to class?” As he was walking away backwards, he yelled back at them, “I have never heard of anything more irresponsible in my life!”

           “Says the one hunting a cannibal…” Scott muttered.

**BEACON HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT**

           “I _said_ ,” John said forcefully as he walked out of his office with Parrish close behind him, “I don’t want anyone on site. Review the photos and don’t blame me for the nightmares.”

           Parrish and John stopped in the bull pen. “But, Sheriff, don’t you feel like we’re missing something?”

           “Yes. And that is why I’m bringing in an expert from Quantico who deals with this sort of thing.” John puts his hand on Parrish’s shoulder. “Look, I know what you’re feeling, you want to do something more. But we can’t. We don’t know enough to do anything.”

            “We know that there’s a cannibal cutting people open to eat their insides.”

           “And for the moment, that’s all we know.” Walking up behind Parrish was Deputy Jones. He looked timid as he stopped in front of John. “Jones.”

           “Sorry, sir, but there’s someone here to see you. I put her in your office to wait until you were done.”

           John smiled. “Does she have bagels and coffee?”

            Jones looked confused. “No, sir. It isn’t Ms. McCall.”

           “Then who is it?” The smile dropped from John’s face. He peered over Jones’ shoulder at his office window. Through it, he could see a woman with wavy brown hair wearing a Navy blue coat and jeans.

           “It’s your wife, sir.”

           Jones awkwardly shifted pressure from one leg to the other. They all knew about the Sheriff’s wife – her death eight years ago and her miraculous reappearance. Given that they were the ones who had to verify her story with the Witness Protection Program, they were the first ones to know. In a station and town as small as Beacon Hills, nothing really ever stays a secret that long.

            John cleared his throat. “Uh, Parrish…get on the line with the FBI and see where they’re at with that specialist. Jones, you…uh…you go back to doing whatever it was that you do.”

            John walked between them and headed to his office. He placed his hand on the door knob and took a deep breath before walking in. There she was, standing in front of his desk, looking down at a framed photo of the two of them and Stiles he kept on his desk. Happier times.

            This was the first time he’s seen her, outside of the papers, since she’s been back. He’s heard her voice on his voicemail, read her story in the paper, but he’s never mustered up the courage to actually see her. John supposed she got impatient and took matters into her own hands. There was only so long a woman could wait without seeing her family in a town as small as theirs.

           She put the picture back the way she found it and turned to face John. He could see plain as day that she was wearing her wedding rings.

           “Hello, John.”


	5. Chapter 5

**BEACON HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT**

            “Claudia.”

           They stood there awkwardly on opposite sides of the room. It went on for about a minute or so, John holding on to the door knob, Claudia gently tapping the desk with her nail. When it became too much, Claudia was the first to make a move. She walked over to John and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck like she’s always done. Hesitantly, John responded.

            For a moment, John let himself believe that no time has passed since the last time he held her like this. That she was never sick. That today was a normal afternoon and that his wife just stopped by for a visit. She looked the same as she did the last time he saw her; she smelled that same, too, like coffee grounds and lavender.

            He breathed her in and held her tighter. He felt water on his neck and knew Claudia was softly crying. She tried taking deep breaths to calm down the wave of emotion that crashed over her. She didn’t know how much she’s missed this – her husband holding her in his arms – until just now.

            “I’m sorry.” Claudia muttered. She was the first to pull away, whipping her eyes. “I know this is all new to you. I shouldn’t have just come at you like that.”

           “It’s fine Claud. This is probably weirder for you than it is for me.” John placed his hands on Claudia’s arms and gently rubbed up and down.

            “You could say that,” She darkly chuckled. “One moment I’m in bed with Stiles curled up next to me, and I close my eyes to go to sleep. When I wake up, buried in a box, suffocating, trying to claw my way out of the ground.” She pulled away from him. She tried putting on a smile to let him know she was alright, but he knew her well enough to see that it’s fake. “Where does the time go?”

           John gave her a genuine smile to let her know everything was alright. “It’s good to see you, Claud.”

            “You too, John.” She sat down on the couch and patted the seat beside her.

            “Sorry I haven’t really spoken to you since you…came back. I wanted to make sure Stiles was okay with everything that’s been going on before we got together.”

            Claudia waved him down. “It’s alright. Twisting your words around, this is probably harder for you than it is for me. You’ve had eight years to adjust to life without me, move on and heal. To show up in your lives again after all this time…it’ll take some getting used to. For all of us.”

           “How are you so calm about this?”

           Claudia chuckled without humor. “It’s taken me a couple weeks and a lot of talking-down from Alan to be this calm.” She playfully nudged his shoulder. “Wine helps, too. But in all seriousness, I was a complete mess when I first ‘ _woke up’_ …I guess you could call it that. I didn’t…I didn’t understand what was going, what had happened. Nothing, just a blank slate in my head.”

           “Probably would’ve given me a heart attack.”

           “With your bad cholesterol? No kidding. After I began remembering, all I wanted to do was go _home_ , see my family. It took a while to understand that I couldn’t pick up my life where I left off. You and Stiles have moved on and I needed to accept that. I can’t say that I’m all the way there; I don’t think I’ll ever get to that point, not entirely. But it’s gets less painful every day…. _almost_.”

Claudia looked down at her hands. She intertwined them and fiddled with her thumbs. She swiped her hand over her cheek before he could see the tears running down. Her voice trembled, but she refused to let that take over.

“I have no expectations when it comes to us, John. Our marriage ended when you put me in the ground. You don’t want to pick up where we left off; _I understand that_. I guess you could say we’re divorced. It’ll take some time to get used to, but I’ll adjust, Lord knows you have. But the one thing I _will not_ sacrifice is Stiles.” She looked up at him with blatant determination. “I can’t lose him, too, John.”

           “You’re his mom, Claud. You always will be, dead _or_ alive.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll do everything I can to get rid of his anger, but the rest is up to you and him.”

           “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

            “You do know who we’re talking about, right?”

            Outside, there was a commotion stirring up by the front desk. Harsh voices commanding someone to stop. There was a scuffling and squeaking of a pair of shoes and then the door to John’s office burst open.

            “Dad, we need to talk-” Stiles shouted as he stumbled through the doorway, a Deputy’s hand gripping his arm. When he saw his mother sitting next to John - their hands clutching one another; their knees brushing up against one another’s from how close they were sitting, angling toward the other. Stiles stopped completely. He stood there in the doorway, with his eyes wide and mouth still open but the words caught in his throat.

           “I’m sorry, sir. I told him you were busy-”

            “That’s okay, Deputy.” John said. He stood up and helped Claudia to her feet before dropping his hand from hers. “We’ll take it from here.”

            The deputy nodded to the Sheriff and his wife and scowled unhappily at Stiles before walking back out to his desk. John stood awkwardly beside Claudia, not really sure on what he was supposed to be doing to bridge this “gap” between his wife -- _ex_ -wife and their son. Claudia didn’t seem concerned that Stiles was shocked to see her, she was in fact angry he was here.

            “Shouldn’t you be in school?!” She asked, crossing her arms and taking a step forward, her head titling to the side to show her disproval.

            “Shouldn’t you be dead?” Stiles angrily retorted. Who was she to come back from the dead and expect to be act like his mom?

           “Stiles!” John shouted. He grabbed Stiles by the collar and pulled him into the office, slamming his office door behind him.

            “That is _no_ excuse to skip school!” Claudia yelled back. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. John held back a smile, all too familiar with her frustrated look. “What are you doing here, Stiles?”

           “To talk to my _dad_ ,” Stiles stressed the ending. The end of his eyebrow twitched, asking for her to challenge him.

           “And it couldn’t wait until after school ended?” John asked. “Hell, even a phone call between classes?”

           “No,” He glanced between his dad and his mom, “Not really.”

           John leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, let’s have it. What is it?”

           “I want to know about the case.” Stiles walked further into the room. “The pictures you sent me this morning - there were bite marks. But not like the bite marks of a were-animal; every single tooth is a point.”

           “John…” Claudia slowly turned towards John; her face carefully blank. In an even tone, she said, “What have you’ve you and our son been up to while I was gone?”

           John opened his mouth and closed it again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Practical….life skills?”

           “And those skills include showing a minor gruesome crime scene photos and asking to him to help solve murders in between school and lacrosse practice?”

            “Like he said, practical life skills.” Stiles pulled out his phone and pulled up the photo John had sent him earlier that morning. He had circle the bite marks left on the victim’s skin. “See?”

           As John spoke, Claudia took the phone. “We’ve established that. Melissa gathered short, brown hairs from the bodies and forensics is running it.”

           “Hold on,” Claudia muttered. She zoomed in on the bite marks. “I know these bites.” She looked up at John. “May I see the file?”

           “You know what killed this family?” John asked skeptically, but handed her the case file anyway. Inside the brown folder were statements, reports, and the gruesome crime scene photos.

           “For your sake I hope I’m not right,” She opened the file and flipped through until she found the photos she was looking for.

           Two close up pictures of Mrs. Walcott’s body after it had been washed down by the M.E before the autopsy began – one of her neck and the other of her midsection. Her neck had been slashed by what appeared to be three claws. Her midsection was then tore open, her intestines pulled out, and then partially eaten.

           “It’s the signature killing of a Wendigo.”

           “A what now?” Stiles asked.

           “ _Wendigo_. A cannibalistic shape-shifter. They’re primarily migratory, only coming out of the woods every so often to feed. When they do, it’s usually limited to transients, people who won’t be missed. It’d like to say it was _rare_ that a Wendigo would attack a family, but unfortunately it’s not. The Wendigo that did this was most likely a child in their late teens, otherwise it would know how to control the urge.”

           “You said this was a signature?” John asked, taking the file back.

           Claudia nodded. “When a Wendigo hunts, it’ll stalk its prey for a while to get comfortable with its patterns. Won’t take more than a couple days. After a pattern has been established, the Wendigo will strike, coming up from behind their victim to slash their throat to prevent them from screaming. Screaming attracts attention and the meal is wasted. Afterwards, the Wendigo will drag its victim to someplace more secluded if it’s not already there. It will act fast after the victim’s throat has been slit. Eat while the kill is still fresh. The Wendigo will then tear open the victim’s midsection to reveal the organs and go to town.”

           John looked visibly shaken by the details of the crime. “H-How do we know who’s a Wendigo? What do they look like?”

           “They’re shape-shifters, Dad.” Stiles plucked one of the photos out of the file to get a closer look. “They could look like anyone.”

            “ _True_ ,” Claudia nodded, taking the graphic photo away from Stiles and putting it back into the folder. “But when a Wendigo is stalking or eating, they can’t help revealing themselves. They’ll have white eyes and pin-point pupils; their fingernails will elongate into razor sharp claws; and their teeth will become indivually pointed.”

           “Where’s the first place we should look?” John asked.

            “Too late, now. If there’s any good news in all of this, Wendigo’s don’t stop someplace twice. They drop in, make their kill and then disappear again.”

           “To your knowledge, there have never been any survivors to a Wendigo attack?”

           “No. Never.” Claudia looked puzzled. “Why do you ask? Is there a survivor?”

            “Yeah, but he hasn’t said anything since he stumbled into the E.R last night.” John tapped his finger on the case file. “You can understand why.”

            “That’s impossible, John.” Claudia urged, her confusion turning to frustration. “A Wendigo _never_ leaves a survivor!”

            “Maybe he or she just wasn’t that hungry?” Stiles asked sarcastically. “You know, a big family meal like that. How much human can the guy take?”

           “Stiles, now is _not_ the time to be funny,” Claudia scolded. “It is absolutely _unheard of_ that a Wendigo would leave a perfectly good meal unharmed.”

            “Relatively unharmed,” John suddenly spoke up. It had just occurred to him what Melissa had told him. He took out his phone and pulled up a picture she had sent him. “Sean had a bite mark on his thigh. Other than, there was nothing else physically wrong with him.”

            Claudia’s face sunk in horror. “Oh God…”

            “What?” Stiles asked. He’s only seen his mother look like that when she found out about her condition. He’ll always connect that reaction with the promise of death. “What does it mean?”

            She ignored his question and stared spout off directions to John. “You need to isolate him in the hospital or detain him here. Just someplace as far away from people as possible.”

            “We have no reason to bring him in-”

           “ _Fine_. Put some Deputies outside his door. The next couple hours are crucial.”

            “Before I pull overtime, do you mind telling me why?”

            “Stiles,” Claudia turned to her son. “What happens when a human is bitten by an Alpha wolf?”

            “Either they turn or they die. It’s a 50-50 shot-” It dawned on him. His eyes widened. “Are you saying that’s what’ll happen to Sean?”

            “A bite by _any_ supernatural creature means a 50-50 shot of turning or being killed. Only were-s require an alpha.” Claudia turned back to John. “Put Deputies on him to keep him isolated. If he dies, he’s in the hospital, but if he turns….”

            “He’s a cannibalistic killer _still_ in the hospital.” John pushed off his desk and leaned out the office door. He waved Parrish over and instructed him to get deputies over to the hospital. A ‘protection detail’, he told him. “How long till we know which?”

            “Twelve to twenty-four hours after the initial bite.”

            “He’s sixteen, Claudia. Is there anything, you know….” John wiggles his fingers at the both of them, “ _witchy_ you can do to help him?”

            “If you mean keeping him human, that’s impossible. But if you mean making him more comfortable until he passes away, that I can do.”

            “Either way, we’re killing him,” Stiles said mournfully.

            “There’s no ‘ _we’_ this time, kid,” John put his hand on Stiles’s shoulder and steered him to the door. “Go to class, go to practice, go home and do homework. Let the adults handle this one.”

            Stiles tried protesting, but John got him out the door. The desk deputy got up and escorted Stiles the rest of the way out, keeping a firm hand around the boy’s arm. John turned back to see Claudia smiling.

           “ _That_ hasn’t changed.”

           “He’s only gotten bigger.” John smiled back. He walked back over to Claudia in the center of the room. “So, in case Sean _does_ turn. How can we stop him?”

           “Nothing special. Bullets will do, but you have to aim at his heart.”

           “I’m not happy about this, Claud…” John muttered. He crossed his arms and hung his head.

           Claudia placed her hand on his arm and gently stroked with her thumb. “I know, John. Neither am I. If there was a different way of doing this, I’d be the first to jump at it.”

           “Thank you,” John said. He twisted his hand so that it captured hers in his.

           “For what? Making you kill a teenage boy?” She scoffed. “Not entirely how I saw this going today.”

           “For coming to see me.” John amended, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “Patience was never really one of your strong suits. _Persistence_ on the other hand….”

           Claudia smiled. She glanced down at their intertwined hands. Her smile faltered as she pulled away from him. She walked over to the couch to collect her jacket and purse.

           “I should go. There’s some people I need to talk to and _you_ need to get back to work.”

           “Uh, yeah,” John nodded. He walked over to his office door and held it open for her.

            “But, uh, before I go,” Claudia paused in the doorway. “Would you and Stiles be interested in having dinner this weekend? I know today wasn’t really the _ideal_ time to talk, but maybe over a hot meal we can try?”

           “I’d like that,” John smiled.

           “I’ll text you the details,” Out of habit, she reached up on her tip-toes and kissed John’s cheek. She hadn’t realized what she had done until she was out the door.

**BEACON HILLS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL**

            When Melissa stepped into Sean Walcott’s isolated room, his dinner sat cold and untouched off to the side. He laid in his bed, unmoving, just staring up at the ceiling.

           “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Melissa asked him as she took his vitals. He didn’t respond. She let go of his wrist and wrote down her findings on his chart. He rolled over on his side, his back towards her. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything. There’s a Deputy standing right outside.”

            Melissa’s maternal instinct kicked in and she reached out and rubbed his back before walking away. She nodded to the Deputy outside Sean’s door.

            A couple twists and turns down the hallway, she reached the nurses station expecting to find her coffee cold. Instead, she found her teenage sons sitting on the floor rolling marbles back and forth.

           “Hi, mom.” Scott said as he looked up. He simultaneously flicked a marble at Isaac that caught him in the inside of his thigh. Isaac winced, but looked up at her cheerfully enough.

            “Boys….” She said as kindly as she could in public.

           She knew why they were here. John had given her a heads up when he personally dropped the Deputy off at Sean’s door. They talked about Wendigos and Claudia over coffee in the cafeteria. It wasn’t a long conversation, maybe ten minutes, but it was long enough to update Melissa. She appreciated it and told him as much as he left, promising to come back in a couple hours to ’ _deal with’_ the situation if Sean started to turn.

           “I’m guessing Sheriff’s told you?” Scott asked.

           “He’s told me that he was handling it. Like he should.” She put a copy of Sean’s chart on the nurses’ stand. “Which makes me wonder why you two are here.”

            “Just as back up.” Scott insisted.

           “Yeah, just in case Stilinski can’t get it up.” Isaac added on. He gave Scott a wicked grin when he realized it was an induendo.

           “Just…stay out of his way, okay.” She pointed her finger at them. “Back up _only_.”

           “Yes, mom,” they both chorused. As soon as she turned her back, they went back to playing marbles.

**LATER**

While Melissa was making her nightly rounds, she decided to swing by Sean’s room to check on him. It’s been very quiet in his isolated section of the wing and she wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead although the alarm never sounded at the station. True, the alternative was becoming a cannibalistic shape-shifter, but what she found more horrifying was that the boy might die alone and afraid.

            She turned the corner to his wing and noticed the Deputy that was stationed outside Sean’s door was gone. At first the thought crossed her mind that the Deputy had just stepped out to use the restroom or grab some coffee, but as she stepped closer to the room, a feeling of dread washed over her.

            “Sean?” Melissa grabbed the door handle and slowly pushed open the door.

           The room was dark and silent. When she flicked on the light switch, she immediately noticed that his bed was empty. She pushed the door open further and stepped inside. On the other side of the bed, the Deputy was lying in a pool of his own blood. His throat was slashed and his midsection shredded, viscera exposed. Crouched beside the corpse was Sean Walcott, his hands wrist deep in the Deputy’s midsection and his mouth covered in blood smears. Sean pulled out a section of the Deputy’s large intestine and began to chew on it.

           “I couldn’t help it. I’m just so hungry,” Sean said mournfully. He looked up at Melissa, his eyes clear white with black pin-points, warm blood oozing languidly from his mouth. “I’m just so _hungry_!”

            Melissa was paralyzed with shock. Sean’s transformation happened more quickly than expected. He rose from the ground slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Melissa. His new prey.

           “I think I’m ready to talk now, nurse,” Sean tilted his head to the side. He licked his lips, further smearing blood around his face.

           Melissa found her strength and began to back away towards the door, groping the wall behind her. As soon as she found the door frame, she turned and bolted. She was maybe few feet out the door when Sean tackled her to the ground. He rolled back on the balls of his feet and rose to crouch over Melissa. He gripped her by the ankles and began to drag her back into the room.

            She screamed as loud as she could, clawing at the linoleum ground for traction. She managed to roll over on her back and get one leg free. With that leg, she began kicking at Sean. She clawed at his hands, at his face, but it didn’t seem to faze him. If anything, it seemed to excite him. Sean’s razor sharp teeth were inches away from Melissa’s face when a deafening roar was sounded from down the hallway.

            Both Melissa and Sean turned to see what, or _who_ , had made that noise. It was Scott. He and Isaac both were wolfed out and ready to pounce.

            Sean let go of Melissa and rose steadily, roaring back. As soon as Sean let go, Melissa scooted back to the wall, curling up into a ball. Scott and Isaac rushed Sean at the same time. Scott flew into the air and tackled Sean to the ground. Isaac knelt down beside Melissa and grabbed her hand. He covered her with his body as he moved her towards the elevators and out of the combat zone.

            The fight between Sean and Scott last for only a moment longer. They both struggled in trying to get the upper hand over the other until finally, Scott pushed Sean against the wall. Sean hissed and kicked Scott with all his strength. Scott was sent flying back into the other wall, hitting his head and leaving him momentarily confused. It was enough time for Sean to get up and run away.

            Scott got up and half-way stumbled over to his mom and Isaac. Melissa was covered in the Deputies blood, but otherwise unharmed.

           “I’m alright. I’m fine.” Melissa said, waving off Isaac’s nervous prodding.

            “Are you sure?” Scott asked.

            “Go get that son of a bitch.” Melissa angrily sighed.

            “I’ll stay here with her.” Isaac nodded to Scott, “Go.”

            Scott turned, growling, and raced off after Sean. It wasn’t that hard following him considering the trail of smeared bloody hand prints on the walls. Sloppy of him, but he’s only just turned. Scott followed the trail up the stairs and on to the hospital roof. He kicked open the door and rushed in.

            On the rooftop, Sean was standing in the center. Scott pounced on him, tackling him to the graveled ground. They struggled, exchanging growls and snarls and scratch marks. Sean managed to roll Scott over on to his stomach and get on top of him. He wrapped his arms around Scott’s neck in a chokehold. He placed his knees on Scott’s spine and pressed down while he pulled Scott up in the chokehold.

            Scott could feel his back bending to the point of breaking. The pressure on his spine was becoming unbearable. Black dots floated in his vision, the air becoming sharp and cold. Like ice. He was losing consciousness. Thinking fast, Scott decided to play dead…in a sense. He let his muscles relax and stopped fighting Sean. He let the Wendigo believe he’d knocked him out.

            Sean let Scott drop to the floor. He rolled Scott onto his back and straddled him. He raised his claws into the air, preparing to strike, when suddenly a gunshot rung out. For a moment, Scott thought the first shot was perhaps a crack of thunder, but then Sean’s blood splattered his face. His eyes shot open and saw a small hole in Sean’s chest with blood quickly staining the shirt around it.

Sean barely noticed that he’d been shot. He turned from Scott to focus on the new arrival. He snarled, brandishing his claws. Two more shots ripped through Sean, both hitting his chest. Sean crumbled in on himself and fell to the ground beside Scott.

Scott sat up, propping himself on his elbows. Stepping out of the stairwell in full uniform, gun smoke billowing out of his gun, was Sheriff John Stilinski. He kept his gun fixed on Sean as he cautiously stepped forward. He nudged the boy with his foot. When he was satisfied that the boy was dead, he holstered his gun and extended a hand to Scott.

Scott gladly took it.

**LATER**

            The official story John had told Scott to report was that he and Isaac were at the hospital to visit their mom when they had heard her screams. They ran to investigate and saw Sean attacking her. They fought him off, but Sean took Scott hostage. On the roof they fought again. That was when John showed up and shot Sean three times.

            John then confirmed Scott’s story, adding that Sean killed his parents and ate some of them. In a moment of sanity, he came to the hospital. John warned the hospital of what he’d uncovered and put a Deputy outside Sean’s room. Sean must have caught on that the police were closing in and decided to make a break for it. He killed the Deputy guarding him and then tied to kill Melissa when she got in his way.

            When asked why he was there, he stated that he was already on his way to the hospital to question Sean. As soon as he got there, he received a phone call from Melissa, panicked, saying that Sean took her son. John wasted no time in following the blood trail to the roof.

            With the all-important question as to why Sean ate the people he killed, John chalked that up to a disturbed mind. He’ll say as much in his report.

            It would be a couple more hours until everyone was released to head home. John draped his Sheriff’s jacket over Melissa’s shoulders as he walked her to her car. She was still covered in the deputy’s blood and still in shock, but she was standing tall. Scott waited, mounted on his bike, beside Melissa’s car. Isaac was already in the driver’s seat, engine running.

           “Sure you’re okay?”

            “Yeah,” She sighed, tucking a hair behind her ear. “Just want to go home a get this day over with.”

           “You and me both.” John smiled and nudged her slightly with his shoulder.

            A faint smile tugged at her lips. Melissa reached for her door, but John beat her to it. He opened and held it open for her while she got in, shutting the door behind her. She rolled down the window and smiled up at him.

            “Thanks again for tonight.”

            “Oh, what’s a little cannibal attack between friends? Keeps life interesting.”

            She chuckled. “Night, John.”

           “Goodnight, Melissa,” John smiled at her and tapped the hood of her car as he walked back.


	6. Chapter 6

**HILLGROVES APARTMENTS**

**APARTMENT OF CLAUDIA COLE - 3B**

            The Stilinski boys stood outside of a flat-matte black door; a cinnamon and twig wreath with a tiffany blue bow framed the faux-golden apartment number – 3B.

            They stood anxiously in front of the door for several seconds without knocking. Stiles glanced over at John – the man he presumes was his father – to see him absently fiddling with the bottle of red wine he bought for dinner. He was wearing a burgundy sweater and dark blue jeans with Dockers. He was clean cut and clean shaven, smelling a pinch too much like his aftershave.

            “Dad,” Stiles said, nudging John slightly. John looked up from the bottle and at his son. Stiles gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s just dinner.”

            “So was the Red Wedding and look how that turned out.” Stiles wanted to laugh at his pop. culture reference if it wasn’t so ominous. John shook his head slightly and smiled reassuringly. “I’m kidding, sort of. I’m sure dinner will be fine.” He reached out to knock on the door, but pulled back. He glanced confusedly at Stiles. “I thought I told you to put on something else?”

            “What?” Stiles took a step back and looked himself over. “What’s wrong with this?”

            Stiles was wearing red high-top converse, dark jeans, and a red flannel button-up shirt – nothing out of the ordinary. John reached out and unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a vintage-worn grey shirt with _Desperate Housewives_ in bold deep red lettering.

            “That’s what’s wrong with this,” John said disapprovingly.

            “Oh, hey….forgot I was wearing that,” Stiles laughed uncomfortably. “Look at that….”

            “Button it up and keep it on.” John said sternly. He waited until the shirt was covered before lifting his fist to knock. “Ready?”

            “Do I have a choice?”

            “Not really.”

            “Then I’m ready.”

            John gave Stiles an encouraging smile. “Here we go.”

            He reached out and knocked three times on the door.

            “Coming!” A voice called out from inside the apartment. The boys could hear light footsteps padding to the door. The chain-link lock on the door was removed, so was the dead-bolt, before the door swung open.

            “Hi, mom.”

            Claudia Stilinski, Stiles’ back-from-the-dead mother, stood in front of them with a bright, welcoming smile. She wore a grey crewneck sweater than clung to her curved waistline and a peach-cream tulle skirt. What shocked Stiles the most, other than the razor sharp butcher’s knife in her hand, was what she wore on-top of her outfit, shielding it from the hazards of the kitchen. It was a plain white apron with a green and white plaid pattern boarders. The strings that tie around the neck and waist where green. A plain apron it would be if it were not for the layered handprints on the body. In pink paint were Claudia’s handprints and on top of them, in green paint, where Stiles’ small hands.

            Claudia noticed the slight unease in her son. She glanced down at the apron before looking back at him. “Your father let me into the garage to get my things during his lunch break.”

            “You always did refuse to cook without it,” John smiled fondly as he handed her the bottle of wine.

            “Still do.” She smiled back at him. She didn’t comment when he pulled his fingers away from hers before they could touch while exchanging the bottle. She took a step back and held the door open wider. “Care for a tour?”

            “Yes, please.” John said. He gently nudged Stiles ahead of him through the door.

            Once inside, it felt like the boys had stepped into a Marth Stewart housewives’ magazine. The walls were a Tiffany Blue color that was complimented nicely with a white baseboards and trim around the ceiling.

            There was a small hallway connecting the apartment and the front door. In it, hanging on the left wall, was a painted white wooden window shutter that was currently being used as a mail holder. Small hooks were drilled into the shutter that acted as key hooks. One of the hooks already held Claudia’s familiar thin red hoodie Stiles had recently taken to wearing. Below it was a tall, galvanized French flower bucket that held a black umbrella. On the right wall were empty, white picture frames.

            “Haven’t had a chance to go through all the boxes yet,” Claudia said, gesturing to the wall with the empty frames. She turned to Stiles. “Would it be alright with you if I put some of your pictures up?”

            “I don’t see why not since you’ve decided to get your own place.” Stiles didn’t mean for it to be rudely passive aggressive, it just fumbled out of his mouth as such.

            John was about to grab Stiles’ arm and pull him back out into the hallway outside. Before he could, Claudia handed Stiles the butcher knife and the bottle of wine and stepped forward. As she was unbuttoning Stiles’ flannel shirt, he through a worried look at John. John shook his head, crossed his arms, and took a step back. He didn’t know what kind of game Claudia and Stiles were playing, but if they wanted to play, John would let them.

            “Take it off,” Claudia said, taking back the bottle of wine and butcher knife. She left the shirt unbuttoned without opening it.

            Stiles hesitantly did as he was told. He took off the flannel and held it in his hands, squeezing it with his fist. Claudia took her time in examining her son’s shirt before looking at him.

            “Do what you want, Stiles. Say what you want. Wear what you want.” She held up her index finger. “For tonight, and tonight only. That’s what this dinner is about – getting all your pent up anger and resentment out, to ask as many questions as you have. Be as rude as you want tonight, honey, because tomorrow it stops. _All of it_. Understood?”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Stiles sounded like a little kid again, being scolded by his mom for doing something irresponsibly silly.

            Behind them, further in the apartment, a timer rang. Claudia looked over her shoulder.

            “That should be the oven.” She said, more so to herself.

           “I’ll help with dinner.” John volunteered. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook under the mail shutter.

           “Now does that mean help or ruin?” Claudia asked playfully. When they were newly married, and even when they were first dating, John always wanted to help her with dinner. More often than not, his helping would lead to a botched recipe.

            John help his hands up. “I’ll only touch what you tell me to. Nothing more.”

            “Good.” She handed him back the bottle of wine, handing him the knife as well as an after throught. “You can put that in the fridge to let it chill before dinner.”

            John gave her a mock salute and walked past her, down the rest of the small hall, and hung a left. Claudia turned to Stiles. “And you can help me move boxes off the table.”

            She turned on her heel and walked straight into the body of the apartment. Once out of the small hallway the apartment opened up. To the left, where John had walked off to, were sliding glass barn-doors that acted as doors to the kitchen. The rod the barn doors were hanging from was attached over the wide archway. Stiles could see John leaning into an open fridge through the glass.

            In the middle of the open room, in front of the hallway, yet closer to the kitchen, was a wooden farm style dining table with boxes piled on and around it. It was a nice rustic pop amid the chic style. All the boxes were marked in Sharpie with Claudia’s name. These were the boxes Derek and Stiles had spent the day moving out of the attic; the boxes that were too painful for John to pack alone eight years ago, having Melissa helped him months after Claudia was buried.

            “Just set them down in the living room somewhere,” Claudia instructed as she picked up a box. She walked through another wide archway to the right of the table that Stiles assumed was the living room.

Stiles put on his flannel shirt, buttoning it up, before he went to work. There were several boxes, but the two of them moved them relatively quickly. They didn’t talk much, just moved the boxes from one room to another. When they were finished, Claudia went off the resume cooking, and to make sure John wasn’t destroying the meal, leaving Stiles up to his own devices.

Like all the walls in the apartment Stiles has seen, the living room was also Tiffany Blue with white trimmings. There was a square ‘U’ shaped couch against the far wall; the wall itself was nothing more than reinforced windows. Currently, the white drapes were pulled back to reveal the vibrant lights of Beacon Hills. The wall left of the couch was entirely deep mahogany shelves, waiting to be filled with books, movies, and various knick-knacks. Right of the couch was a standing bar tray without any alcohol on it. Winging the coffee table, yet facing the couch, were two arm chairs. Stiles though he would see a TV, but either the previous tenant took it with them or the apartment didn’t come with one. When Stiles looked up, he saw wooden fan blades covers in the shape of palm leaves.

Stiles walked out of the living room, keen on inspecting the place more.

Behind the dining table was the back wall of the apartment. It had two matte-black doors with silver doorknobs evenly spaced apart on either end of the wall with a door-less doorframe in between.

Stiles walked over to the black door closest to him. He opened it to reveal a bland and bare bedroom with cream walls and two white doors that lead to the bathroom and closet respectively. He walked back out, closing the door behind him.

The door-less doorframe (say _that_ five times fast), was for the small laundry room held the washer and dryer, one stacked on top of the other. A laundry basket next to it with a clothesline above it, and a plastic shoe organizer mounted to the wall was being used to hold cleaning supplies instead of shoes.

The second black door was a couple steps away from the kitchen. When Stiles opened the door, the walls weren’t Tiffany Blue or the bland cream, but a soft lavender.

_This is her room,_ Stiles thought. He was going to take another step in, but thought better of it. She wanted tonight to be about healing and reconnecting. Stiles wanted that, too. Snooping around her new bedroom for possible traces of Peter Hale wasn’t a part of the night’s agenda.

Although there weren’t any overt signs of the psychopath, there were some covert ones that nagged in the back of Stiles’ mind:

How could his recently formerly deceased, divorced (for lake of a better word), unemployed, broke mother afford an apartment in Hillgroves? It is one of the nicest, more costly, apartment complexes in Beacon Hills. It surely didn’t come from John, not on a Sherriff’s salary that’s budgeting a mortgage and debt. However Peter made his money, Stiles was sure he could surely afford a place like this.

Another part of Stiles’ mind wants him to believe that Claudia could have gotten all this by using magic, but he knows his mother too well to think she would do that. She could cheat (Stiles wasn’t sure if what Peter did was rape or not), she could lie (to protect her family), but she could never use magic for her own personal gain. Off all things, that was the most immoral.

This apartment, with all its furniture and renovations, were paid for by Peter Hale - Stiles’ possible father and all-around unstable megalomaniac horn-dog.

* * *

 

            Dinner was served in style, as was customary with Claudia. Brussels sprouts pan-seared in maple syrup mixed with cranberries, pecans, and gorgonzola cheese; seared duck breast with port wine reduction. Claudia opened the bottle of wine John brought and poured it in their glasses.

            When Stiles took a bite of his duck breast, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. It was moist, savory, a stealthy explosion of culinary perfection in his mouth. He was young when his mom died and hadn’t yet tasted the finer meals in her recipe book. Now he understood what John meant whenever he said he missed Claudia’s cooking – it was almost always preceded by the kitchen’s smoke detector and followed by a phone call for take-out.

            When Stiles opened his eyes, he saw that John had also taken a moment to savor the food. Claudia looked at the both of them, awaiting anxiously for their judgment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Taking their silence as a negative, she quickly said,

            “It’s been awhile since I had the chance to cook decent food. I’m sure I’m a bit rusty-”

            “It’s fantastic, mom.” Stiles cut her off. He smiled reassuringly and took another bite.

            After that, there was hardly any talking except for the occasional praise. The only sounds were that of their eating and the scraping of forks and knives on their plates.

            Claudia cleared their plates when they were finished and brought out desert - mini cherry cheesecake trifles served in a wine glasses with small silver spoons sticking out. They were chilled perfectly. Like the duck, every bite of the cheesecake trifles were divine.

            “Best meal I’ve had in a long time,” John said between large bites.

            “It took Dad forever to learn how to cook without burning the food, and it still doesn’t taste right.” Stiles added.

            “Please tell me you don’t live entirely off take-out and fast food.” Claudia glanced at John, who was now avoiding eye contact. She swatted his arm. “John Stilinski, what in the world were you thinking?”

            “I’m thinking that it was better to eat take-out than burnt pasta.” John chuckled. He easily dodge the next blow.

           “How can you burn pasta?”

            “ _Easily_ , apparently,” Stiles added.

            “If you’re not careful, you just might be seeing me every night, making sure you two don’t starve to death. That or have a heart attack.” She turned to John, more serious. “Are you still keeping your cholesterol in check?”

            They began talking about John’s health – how Stiles has been watching it, what he’s supposed to do and not do – before moving on to Claudia’s recent doctor’s appointment. Alan tagged along when Claudia went in for her post-death check-up. All tests revealed her frontotemporal dementia was completely gone and showed no signs of returning; stranger still was that there were no traces that it ever existed. Aside from the back-from-the-dead diagnosis, she appears to be in perfect health – physically and mentally.

            Claudia was in the midst of pouring John another glass of wine when his cell phone rang. After reading the caller ID, he excused himself to the hallway.

            Claudia glanced curiously down at Stiles. “Work?”

            Stiles shrugged and leaned back in his seat, his second cheesecake trifle in his hands. “Those are the only calls he gets these days. Work or me.”

            “Just you and the station,” Claudia mused, putting the bottle back in a wine bucket to chill. “That’s it?”

            Stiles tactfully caught on to what she was not so quietly asking. He quickly glanced up at her before going back to his desert. “If you’re wondering if he’s seeing anyone, the answer is no.”

            “Stiles-”

            “It’s okay, mom.” He shrugged again. “It’s only natural, I guess. For you to be curious, I mean. To us it’s been nearly nine years, but to you it’s maybe a month.”

            Claudia looked down at her hands, her engagement and wedding ring still on her finger. She mournfully twirled them around. “It’s just a lot to digest in a short amount of time.”

            “He’s a lot like you in that way,” Stiles said after a moment to comfort her. She looked at him with a confused expression on her face. “He still wears his wedding ring. Even if you weren’t here, it’ll still be hard.”

            “You should have seen him when he was signing the divorce papers. I think the Judge calling me _Ms. Cole_ is what hit the ball home.”

            “You really aren’t coming home, are you?” Stiles asked quietly after nearly a minute of silence. “You’re Ms. Cole and we’re still the Stilinskis. You have an apartment and we still have the house. Seems like you only came back just to leave again.”

            Claudia reached across the table and took the wine glass out of Stiles’ hands. She put it on the table before taking both of his hands in hers. She leaned forward and kissed them. The way she looked at him with only love and heartbroken understanding made Stiles’s wish he hadn’t asked.

            “Leaving you once was hard enough; I’m not doing that again. You can come here whenever you like, and stay however long you like, but this is where I need to be.” She briefly let go of his hands to pull out a silver key from her pocket. She folded it into his hand. “Your father and I stopped being married the moment I was put in the ground. That doesn’t mean we stopped loving each other. For the rest of my life, I will love both of you and there is no force on this earth that could make me stop. I will always be your mom, baby…but I can’t be Mrs. Stilinski.” She lifted her hand to place it on Stiles’ cheek. “Not this time around.”

            At that moment, John walked in, stuffing his phone into his pocket. He looked apologetic.

            “Oh, I know that look,” Claudia sighed. “What happened?”

            “Bar fight in Carson’s. Fifteen arrested and we’re short staffed. I’ve got to head in.” John took his coat off of the hook and walked over to the table. He put his hand on the back of his chair. “Ready to go, kid?”

            “To the station filled with drunk brawlers?” Claudia asked incredulously.

            John shook his head. “I’ll take him home first.”

            “Actually,” Stiles said, standing up. He put the apartment key in his pocket. “Can I stay here? The station is a couple minutes away; you can pick me up when you’re done.” Before John could say anything, Stiles pulled out his cell phone. “Mom doesn’t have a cell or a hardline. Mine’s fully charged and on full volume.”

            John looked over at Claudia for permission. She nodded with a smile on her face.

            “Okay,” John walked over and gave Stiles a hug. Claudia stood up and they hugged, albeit hesitantly at first. John was afraid that if he held her, he wouldn’t let her go. Claudia pulled back, but kept her hand on his arm. “I don’t know what time I’ll be finished. Considering how late it is right now, you might have to spend the night here.”

            “I’m cool with that.” He turned to Claudia and grimaced. “Just don’t eat me.”

            Claudia rolled her eyes and gently slapped Stiles’ stomach. “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

 

After the dishes had been washed and the kitchen cleaned, Stiles and Claudia retired to the living room with their cups of hot cocoa with a peppermint stick in it. Stiles was stealthy enough to snag John’s laptop when he walked him down to his car to “grab his jacket”. The screen was small, that meant getting close. Stiles was hesitant at first, like his father. He didn’t want to put himself in the position to have his mother hold him, afraid that everything would fall apart like a bad dream.

            Claudia put those fears to rest when she pulled Stiles to her after he set up the movie – _Inception_. She had her feet curled up on the couch, her arm around Stiles’ shoulders, and his back leaned against her. Soon, Claudia forgot entirely of Stiles and focused solely on the movie. This gave Stiles’ enough time to process his thoughts.

            After the movie was over and the credits rolled, Claudia was leaning forward in her seat, the cup of cocoa no longer hot and nearly untouched in her hands.

            “What in the world did I just watch?” were the first words out of her mouth. “Is the top still spinning?” She looked over at Stiles with wide eyes. “Is it?”

           “The better question is, is the spinning top Cobb’s totem?” Claudia looked puzzled by Stiles’ question. He sat up from his slouch. He’s had to explain this to nearly everyone he’s watched it with, so this time shouldn’t be any different. Hopefully, it’ll go smoother than when he explained it to Isaac.

            “Cobb never said the top was his totem. He’s clutching the top in his hand when Ariadne asks about totems, yeah, but the top was never Cobb's totem -- it was his wedding ring all along.”

           “And you know this because….”

           “Every time we see Cobb's hand in the dream world, he happens to have the ring on. Meanwhile, every time we see Cobb's hand in the real world, he doesn't have it. It's not there on any of the present-day, non-dream scenes at the beginning, and it's not there in the last few scenes - meaning that the ending wasn't a dream. It was reality.”

            “Then why does he use the top if his totem is his ring?”

           “The top belonged to Mal, his dead wife. Totems must be something unique that only the owner knows well. Since the top was previously his wife's, that means Cobb must have had another totem. The ring seems like a perfect choice. He stopped wearing it when she died, but was too cheap to buy a new totem.”

            After a beat, she asked with a smile, “How much free time have you had to think about this?”

            “When I’m not running for my life, I find I have a lot of free time.”

            Claudia shook her head. When she stood up, she took Stiles’ empty mug and walked to the kitchen to rinse out the cups. When she came back, Stiles was shutting down John’s computer.

           “Tired already?” Claudia asked.

            “Uh, no, actually,” Stiles shut the computer and pushed it away on the coffee table. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his legs. “I was hoping we could talk.”

            “Sure, honey.” She saw the nervousness in Stiles’ face and movements. She walked around the table to sit down on the couch. “What is it?”

            “When, ah, when the book – _your_ book – was calling to me, screaming actually….it showed me something. Actually, it showed me everything. Everything to do with you from the moment you were born to….to the moment you died.”

            Claudia knew where this was leading, but she decided not to rush him. She’d bite her tongue and ride along with his long winded, well thought-out roller-coaster. She simply listened like any mother would, reaching out to hold her son’s hand.

            “Tell me.”

            “You already know-”

            “Tell me anyway.”

            Stiles took a deep breath. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes, but instead focused on their hands. “You and Peter Hale. You loved him.”

            “I did.”

            “And he loved you.” In his own, albeit disturbed, way.

            “He did.”

            “You had three sisters” When he mentioned Katherine, Piper, and Penelope, he could feel his mother’s grip tighten slightly. Briefly, Stiles wondered whether or not Claudia saw them in Heaven, which he could only assume to be true; he wondered if she missed them now that she was back.

            “They were killed by a rabid werewolf omega. You received your powers-”

“Powers you now have,” Claudia smiled fondly.

“The Hale pack, Derek’s mom, caught the Omega. You tortured him but couldn’t kill him…Peter did that for you. After that, you moved away to Georgia. There, you met Sgt. John Stilinski.” Claudia smiled at the fond memory. “Met, married, moved back to Beacon Hills. You gave up your powers to have a normal life, to start a family.”

“What are you leaving out, Stiles,” Claudia quietly prods. She knew where Stiles was going, _supposed_ to be going, but she needed him to get there himself. It would do him no good for her to say it outright.

“You slept with him.” Stiles said accusingly, pulling his hands away from hers. He stood up and walked towards the empty bookshelf wall.

“With who, Stiles?” She asked quieter still.

“With Peter! With that psychopathic mass murderer!” He spun around in his heels. His face was contorted with anger and heated tears welled up in his eyes. “You cheat on your husband, the man you _claim_ to love, with your ex-boyfriend for a romp in a dirty warehouse during a storm; only to come home and cover it up with your husband! Lo and behold, you find out your pregnant. What do you do? You do what you do best - _lie_.” His lip trembled as his voice wavered. “And the Sheriff wonders where I get it from.”

“You’re not finished.” Claudia stated. She remained on the couch as her son verbally tore her apart.

“How can I be? Back nearly month and I already hate you. I hate that you’re a hypocrite. I hate that you have no idea who my father is. I hate that-” he sharply inhaled, the tears streaming freely now. “I hate that when you woke up, _he_ was the first one you turned to! I hate that you remember _him_ before me! If it was about knowing someone the longest, trusting someone that deeply, you could have gone to Melissa…..but you chose _him.”_ Stiles stopped yelling. He took a step back to control his breathing. He wiped his eyes and nose on the back of his hand while he spoke.

“However fucked up that is, you say you love your husband as much as Peter. But when you come back from the dead, you made your choice. And I can’t forgive you for that.” He waved his and around the room. “For _any_ of this. Not for the cheating. Not for the lying. Not for choosing him over us. Not even for pimping yourself out to him one last time to get an apartment like this! I love you because you are my mom, and I always will, but that doesn’t mean you have my forgiveness.”

Claudia wiped away the tears on her cheeks with her fingertips. She never imagined hearing all this from her son would hurt as much as it did. She berated herself mentally, but to hear it aloud….

“Are you finished?” Claudia whispered. Every time she spoke to him it seemed like she grew quieter.

           Stiles waved his hand for her to talk. Instead, she got up and left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a thin knitting needle, a crystal attached to a string, and a thick piece of paper that was folded copious amounts of times. She unfolded the paper to reveal a complete map of Beacon Hills. She laid it out flat on the table. She held out her hand to Stiles, yet kept her eyes focused on the map.

            Stiles hesitantly placed his hand in his mothers. Before he could protest, she took up the knitting needle and pricked his finger. Stiles tried jerking away, but Claudia had a firm grip. She moved his finger over the map and let a few drops of blood spill onto the page. When she was satisfied, she released his hand.

            “Ostende nobis pater tuus mihi,” Claudia instructed the crystal hanging from the string.

           She repeated these words as she moved the crystal in small circles over the blood drops. Moments later, the blood began to move on its own. Claudia pulled the crystal away and stepped back, motioning Stiles to step forward. Stiles watched as the blood slid across the map, leaving a crimson trail in its wake. The blood stopped moving once it found its destination, seeping into the paper – the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department.

           Stiles looked up at his mother. He wasn’t sure what he saw on the page, but he knew what he saw on her face – _relief._

“What was that?”

            “What you were looking for.” She sighed, pulling Stiles into her chest. She buried her face in her son’s hair, holding him to her. When she pulled back, she was crying again. This times, they were happy, mixing beautifully with her smile. She held his face in her hands. “I can’t make you forgive me. Frankly, I don’t believe I deserve it. Not from you, not from your father. All I ask is that we try to put everything behind us and _move on._ My past died with me, but our future began the moment I woke up.” She smoothed her thumb across his cheekbone. “Can we do that?”

            “I can’t promise anything, mom,” tears starting to stream down his face, his mother wiping them away with her thumbs, “but we can try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note - I'm leaving the warehouse scene between Peter/Claudia ambiguous for a reason. Stiles isn't sure if it's rape or not, Peter clearly doesn't think so, and Claudia is drowning in the guilt and shame of it anyway (call it consensual or not). It's up to you to decide.


	7. Nightmare

**BEACON HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT**

“Someone really hated these guys,” Deputy Parrish greeted Sheriff Stilinski as he walked into the station house. The deputy look exhaustingly disheveled – dark bags under his weary eyes, uniform wrinkled with small amounts of blood droplets and dirt on it.

“How many arrested?” John asked. Another officer looking slightly less haggard as Parrish handed John a handful of case files as he and Parrish walked past the desk sergeant. John crudely weighed them by their weight in his hands. He shook his head and whistled low.

            “Yeah,” Parrish rubbed his weary eyes. “Took at least half the force to control the crowd before getting to the fight.”

            “Who the hell started it?” He opened the first file and wasn’t surprised to see Donnie Brent’s mugshot starring up at him. Donnie was a frequent flyer of the Beacon Hills jail; to the point where some of the deputies keep a cell open for him special. “Why am I not surprised?”

            “Actually boss,” Parrish drawled, opening the doors to the bull-pin.

           Lining the walls, handcuffed together, and sitting in plastic chairs, were the participants of the bar fights. There were at least ten badly beaten up, fully grown men groaning in pain and clutching their injuries. Towards the middle of the seated conga-line of misery was Donnie Brent. He had a bloody towel stuffed under his nose, held up by resting his head on his shoulder.

            “They were all on the _receiving_ end of the fight.” Parrish finished. He turned the corner into a small hallway and began walking down to the small interrogation room and its observation room. Parrish kept his hand on the door knob to the observation room. “It’s the safest thing for everybody keeping them locked in here.”

            “It’s a small room, Parrish. How many you got crammed in there?” John asked incredulously.

           “Just the two.”

           Parrish turned the knob and let the door swing open. John walked in and through the plated window, he could clearly identify one of the men as Derek Hale. His normal grumpy expression was now intensified by his situation. His companion, on the other hand, had decided to take a nap, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. As if sensing someone was watching him, the second man lifted his head off the table.

            It was Peter Hale.

* * *

After a strong cup of coffee and a brief word with Parrish and some of the other detainees, John walked into the interrogation room. Normally with a bar brawl, they’d throw everyone into jail for the night, slap a fine on the aggressor and then send them all home. No formal questions asked. Yet with a situation like the one he has with the Hale boys, John _needed_ to cover all his bases.

            In the interrogation room, Peter sat alone. Derek had been moved to the conference room.

            “Good Evening, Sherriff Stilinski. Or is it morning? Your monkeys took away my watch when I let them drag me in here.”

            “ _Let_ them? You were under arrest for-” John made a show of opening his rather larger, collective case file crudely bound to contain it all. He turned to the most recent list of charges, “public drunkenness, disorderly conduct, destruction of public property, assault on…..twelve counts, resisting arrest and striking a police officer.”

            “Impressive.” Peter cocked his head to the side, a wolfish grin spreading over his face. “But I’ve been charged with better.”

            “Is this a game to you, Hale? See how many charges you collect before they won’t let you pass go, before they finally send your ass to prison? You and I both know it would be a blood bath.”

            Peter leaned forward, his hands pressed down on the table, his face inches away from the microphone that was a permanent fixture on the table. In a low voice, he whispered, “And who says that isn’t what I want?”

            “If it’s not your freedom that you want - which _frankly_ , strikes me as odd seeing as how that freedom should mean everything to you. Your freedom gives you power.”

            “ _Power_ ,” Peter scoffed, he leaned back in his chair. “What power do you see, Sheriff?”

            “None.”

            Peter raised an eyebrow. “Thank you Sheriff for your unreserved honesty.”

            “You have no power and I’d like to keep it that way. Last time you _did_ have power, this town went to Hell in a hand basket.” John closed Peter’s case file. “But I’d also like to keep you out of prison. Your blood bath would lead straight back here. My first job is to protect those kids. If keeping you out of prison helps me do that, then I’ll do it.”

            “Stiles must be proud to have _you_ as a father.”

            John was silent at that. He doesn’t like discussing his family to this man. He knew that Peter and Claudia grew up here. It wasn’t until recently that he knew of Peter as someone other than a case file. Given the size of Beacon Hills and the _supernatural_ quality of the town, Peter and Claudia must’ve come in contact at some point. How close that contact was, John could only guess. And given that Peter was the one who found her, he could only guess their contact was…. _close_.

            “Why start the bar fight, Hale?” John sighed. He tapped his pen on the table.

            “I was drunk.” He glared at the pen. “Kind of wishing I still was.”

            “What about Derek? He’s a good kid when you’re not pulling him into things.”

            “My nephew got concerned for the town’s safety when the bartender called him to tell him where I was. Sasha’s a… _old_ _friend_ of Derek’s. From High School.” Peter paused for John to speak, but he remained silent. “Derek was on his way and Sasha was walking me outside when the mouthy one started getting handsy with Sasha.”

“Donnie Brent.”

“I didn’t like it so I did something about it.”

            “A regular ‘warrior for women’.”

“Not really. Sasha’s a good kid,” as an afterthought, he added, “even _better_ in bed. If anyone’s gonna grab ass with her, it’s going to be me.”

“Do you make a habit of sleep with your nephew’s friends?” John asked incredulously.

Peter grinned, flashing fang. “Derek had no shortage of friends in high school.”

            John sighed, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why get drunk? Were you drinking to remember? Or to forget?”

            “A bit of both, actually.” Peter looked away, down at his hands. A small, genuine smile crept on his face as he stared into space. Noticing that John was watching him, his smile turned cruel as he looked back at him. “Would you like to know, Sherriff?”

            John briefly nodded his head. He wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to know by the look on Peter’s face, but he’ll hear it for now.

            Peter leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on the table. His hands were still handcuffed, so he intertwined his fingers.

            “I can’t get her out of my head. Her voice, her laugh. The way she _smells,_ like lavender and the sweetest honey; the way she _feels,_ soft and creamy; the way she says screams my name when we’re alone, our bodies connected. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. When I’m asleep and when I’m alone, I think of her. Of her hands in my hair, stroking my body; of her lips on my skin, like fire.”

            “It’s her you’re drinking to forget…” John said softly. Whoever this woman was to him, she must have been something special to make a madman even more unhinged. John once had the same feelings towards Claudia after her death, which lead him into his heavy drinking. If Peter wasn’t careful, he’d fall down the same rabbit hole. The town would really be screwed if something like that happened.

            “No. _That_ I drink to remember.”

            “Then what are you trying to forget?”

            John wore he saw a spark of malice in Peter’s eyes, but it was gone before he could register it. Peter continued.

            “It was the night of the Super Storm. Do you remember it, Sheriff? I bet you were quite busy.”

            “I was.” John nodded.

            “So was I.” For a moment the spark was back. “The storm was hitting hard. We were told to stay indoors, for safety. She should have listened….” Peter’s voice was soft, warning. “She wanted to get home, but her car wasn’t working. She knew her husband was helping those who needed him more, so she didn’t call him. I knew she would be alone.”

            “This woman, she was married?”

            “ _Oh yes_ , Sheriff. She was. But I didn’t care.” There was a sadness in his voice. He took a moment to collect himself before continuing. “The rain was too thick to see through, so she couldn’t see me. I pulled her into an abandoned warehouse. She said what her husband didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him as she wrapped her legs around my waist. She screamed my name, over and over and over again. She was louder than the thunder that shook the building. I thought I was going to go deaf between the two. It seemed to go on for eternity, losing ourselves in each other. I don’t know how long we were together, but when it was over she wanted more. So I gave her more.”

            John tried not to squirm in his chair with Peter’s descriptive retelling of his exploits with a married woman. Instead, he sat still and quietly clicked his pen.

            “Husband must not have been that great, for her to cheat on him with you of all people.”

            “I don’t know, Sheriff.” Peter leaned back in his chair. The wolfish smile returning to his face. “Am I better than you?”

            John stopped clicking his pen. He wasn’t sure about what he just heard. “Excuse me?”

           “Tell me, John.” Peter leaned in closer, his voice dropping to match his deadly grin, his eyes flashing cobalt blue. “How does it feel to have my son call you ‘daddy’?”


	8. Chapter 8

**McCALL FAMILY HOME**

**SCOT’S BEDROOM**

Stiles woke with a start, sitting up in bed. He grabbed his chest, groping at his heart, sure it was beating out of his chest. The shirt he slept in was covered in sweat. His breathing was erratic. He felt like he was suffocating; he couldn’t get enough air to his lungs.

            After a couple minutes of near death, he finally collapsed back on the inflatable mattress. He was still clutching his chest and gasping for breath, as everything returned to normal slowly. He glanced up to see Scott snoring loudly with drool slipping out of his mouth and onto his pillow. Stiles turned away and stared up at the ceiling.

            He had been having the same nightmare – Peter confronting John at the station house – for the past week; since his mother confirmed John as his father with a blood scrying. Being a slight pessimist, he automatically thought that the scrying was faulty. Couldn’t Peter just as likely be at the station house? It was a bar fight after all. Peter never really passed up a chance to beat the shit out of people. With how much certainty could that spell be accurate? Could Claudia, a more experienced witch, manipulate the spell to show Stiles what he wanted to see rather than the truth?

            All these thoughts and speculations nagged at Stiles. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing that nightmare; he couldn’t talk to his mom without envisioning her as Peter’s personal prostitute in the apartment he paid for.

            He didn’t want to think about any of that anymore. He wanted his life to be like it was before his mother rose from the dead – the familiarity of werewolves and constant death. Sometimes, those two don’t seem as bad with philandering parents, home wrecking lies, and witchcraft in the mix.

            Hearing noise and the smell of bacon drifting up from downstairs, Stiles decided it was time to get up. He threw back the covers and rolled out of bed.

**KITCHEN**

            When Scott walked in, yawning and ruffling his hair, Stiles and Melissa were putting invitations inside envelopes.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Good morning to you too, Sunshine,” Stiles said licking an envelope. Thank goodness there weren’t that many because he was starting to fear getting a paper cut on his tongue. He put a stamp on it and placed it in the small ‘finished’ pile.

            “They’re invitations to Isaac’s birthday party.” Melissa said. She stuffed another invitation into an envelope, wrote the address on it and handed it to Stiles.

           “What birthday party?” Scott asked. He opened the fridge to pull out the milk carton.

            “The _surprise_ birthday party we are having.” Melissa said. “Dishes in the dishwasher are clean.”

            Scott pulled away from the cupboard and walked over to the dishwasher. “Well it won’t be a surprise for long because he’s coming down the stairs.”

            “Way to bury the lead,” Stiles hissed as he and Melissa scrambled to collect all the materials and put them in her purse. Outside the kitchen, they heard footsteps padding down the stairs. Scott having wolf senses, he knew in advance. He smiled at their haste.

            “And don’t forget to pick something up,” Melissa told both Stiles and Scott, waving her finger at them.

            “What are we picking up?” Isaac asked as he walked in. His sleeping pants were more colorful than Scott’s plain Navy Blue, decorated with Bugs Bunny and carrot sticks. He opened the fridge and pulled out a leftover steak from last night.

            “Groceries from the store.” Melissa pulled out a list of items and a small snack-bag of money. She put them on the island counter. She sighed at Isaac. “And that is not breakfast, Isaac McCall.”

            “Anything’s breakfast if you want it to be,” Isaac answered with a smile as he put the steak in the microwave. Isaac couldn’t help but feel warmly elated by being called ‘McCall’. With every passing day, he felt more like Scott’s brother and Melissa’s son rather than a pack mate and ward.

            “At least eat some fruit with it.” Melissa suggested.

            Scott picked up an orange and chucked it at the back of Isaac’s head. Thanks to his wolfish reflexes, he was able to catch it without turning around. Stiles wasn’t paying them any attention as he went back to eating his now soggy cereal. The pack was always throwing things at each other, trying to catch the other off guard at the chance for a cheap laugh. The only time it worked was with Stiles and Lydia, the only pack members without unnatural reflexes. Lately, as Stiles gained slow control over his powers, it was down to Lydia.

            Melissa rolled her eyes, happy that they at least weren’t skipping breakfast like usual, and grabbed her purse.

            “You’re working today?” Scott asked, finally noticing his mom in her scrubs.

            “Unlike my boys,” She kissed them on the cheek as she passed them, “some of us have to work weekends.”

            “I’m not on the schedule today.” The microwave beeped and Isaac carefully pulled out his steak. Over the summer, he found a job working as a bus-boy for Keating’s, a diner in town. Before Melissa adopted him, he wanted to help ‘pull his weight’ around the house even though she said it wasn’t necessary.

            “Clinic’s closed on Sundays,” Scott added.

            “And I don’t work….” Stiles muttered into his cereal bowl.

            “Lucky you,” Melissa grabbed Stiles’ head and planted a kiss in his hair. She ruffled his hair as she walked out.

            “Bye mom!” Scott and Isaac chorused after her. Stiles waved because he had cereal stuffed into his mouth.

            “Bye kids!” She yelled back before the front door closed behind her.

**CHINATOWN - **SACRAMENTO, CA****

            Sacramento being the closest city to Beacon Hills that doesn’t have the supernatural lurking around, Stiles gathered the available crew into his jeep and headed out. Soon, an afternoon that was meant for shopping for Isaac quickly turned into an afternoon of Stiles carrying around Lydia and Kira’s bags as they hopped from store to store.

            “Guys,” Stiles prompted for the countless time, “we’re here for Isaac. Remember Isaac? The wolf pup that’s been kicked a few times?”

            Lydia rolled her eyes. “We’re getting in the gift-giving mood.”

            “By spending all your money?”

            “By helping the local economy.” She smiled over her shoulder. Stiles couldn’t help but smile back, as strained as it was.

            “And what are we doing in Chinatown?”

            Around them, tacky Chinese music played from various store fronts. Above them, banners and paper lanterns connected the stores, almost creating a false ceiling. Looking around a bit while they were stopped in the square, Stiles noticed a gaunt, elderly man leaning on a stick, a straw hat with a wide brim pulled down over his face. He looked like a rice field worker. In Sacramento? He was probably the store owner and wanted to drum up some business.

            “Because-” Lydia was about to answer but Kira popped up out of the crowd.

            “Because my mom gave me a shopping list. She said that since we’d be close, she wouldn’t have to make the trip herself.” She handed her bags to Stiles with an innocent smile.

            “Don’t you have a boyfriend, who is wolfishly stronger than me, to do this for you?”

            “Scott and Isaac are grocery shopping.” Kira reminded him. As they walked through the crowded, narrow walkways of Chinatown, she gave him a rundown of where the Pack was spending their Sunday. “Malia is training with Derek. And the three of us are shopping.”

            Stiles shook his head. “Are you guys done pre-shopping so we can actually do what we came here for?”

            “Yes,” the girls droned out in unison. They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

            “I saw that-” Suddenly, a man forcefully knocked into Stiles from behind. If it wasn’t for the extra baggage he would have actually hurt the girls when he fell forward into them. Lydia and Kira both caught him, but stumbled slightly. Regaining his balance, Stiles turned around angrily. “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

            The man that knocked into him froze and his eye widened in surprise. He was the same height as Stiles, but a little bit older – college age, maybe. Under his black blazer, he wore a brown sweater and khaki pants. He was Asian-American; Stiles couldn’t tell Chinese from Japanese from Korean. His black hair was rakishly spiked. He was attractive in a John Cho kind of way.

            “Y-You can see me?” He asked tentatively.

            “Of course we can see you, jackass,” Lydia said, stepping forward and planting a hand on her hip. “You just knocked over my friend!”

            “Both of you…” The man smiled. He closed his eyes in relief and sighed. When he opened them, they could see the happiness in his eyes. “I have tried communicating with every physic in Chinatown. You are the first people that can actually _see_ me!”

            Kira stepped forward with a confused look, but she wasn’t looking at the strange man. She was looking at Lydia and Stiles.

            “Guys…” She glanced at where they were looking, but she didn’t see anyone but the crowded street. “Who are you talking to?”

            “This bozo right here,” Stiles waved his hand at where the man was standing. Kira obligingly looked at where the man supposedly was, but she still couldn’t see anything. The man looked from Kira to Stiles and Lydia then back.

            “She can’t see me. I-It’s like everyone else I’ve been trying to talk to. They can’t see me!”

            Lydia was becoming more concerned as the conversation went on. She pulled on Stiles’ sleeve. “Come on,” she reached over and took Kira’s arm, pulling her with her. “Let’s go.”

            “Wait!” The man called after them as Lydia lead them away. Stiles made sure the girls walked in front of him and kept up the speedy pace to get away from the man as soon as possible. “Wait! I know you can hear me.”

            “What’s going on with you two?” Kira asked.

            “I have no idea and I don’t want to stick around to find out.” Lydia refused to look over her shoulder as they walked on through Chinatown.

           The group turned here and there, sometimes going off the path. It took nearly ten minutes for Lydia to feel like they comfortably lost him. They were standing on a sidewalk, not sure where they were but knowing it was out of Chinatown.

            “Okay, stop,” Kira said. She gently took her arm away from Lydia. She took a step back so she could talk to them both easily. “Tell me what happened back there.”

            “You were there, Kira. You know what happened.” Stiles said.

            “Yeah, but apparently what I saw didn’t quite mesh with what you two saw.”

            Lydia nervously glanced up at Stiles before turning back to Kira. “You saw him, right?”

            “Saw who?”

            “That Asian guy, looked like he was a college student or something.” Stiles said, shifting the bag in his arms so they wouldn’t fall. “He bumped into me and then started saying some weird things about physic and how Lydia and I were the only people that could see him.”

            Kira’s mouth had slightly dropped, unknown to her. “And all that happened while I was standing next to you?”

            “Yeah…” Lydia said softly. She was beginning to get a bad feeling about the whole situation.

            “Whoever he was, he was right. I couldn’t see him.” After a moment, a smile stretched across her lips. “You know what that means, right?”

            Stiles brow furrowed. “That Lydia caught my crazy?”

            “No!” She gently hit his arm. “You just met a ghost!”

            “Come again?” Lydia asked.

            “A ghost! You and Stiles are the only people seeing this guy – a banshee and a witch. You can see him, talk to him, even _touch_ him. He’s a ghost!”

            “Why are you happy about this?” Stiles asked, astounded by her behavior.

            “We never get ghosts in Beacon Hills. This is a cool first, you have to admit.”

            “Not from where I’m standing,” The man reappeared seemingly out of nowhere behind Kira. Stiles dramatically jumped, the shopping bags spluttering to the ground. He clutched his heart and tried to remember how to breathe as Kira and Lydia picked up the bags.

            “He’s here?” Kira whispered.

            “You don’t have to whisper. I _can_ hear you.” He glanced down at Kira.

            “Well she can’t hear you,” Lydia said. She stood up, and for once she was holding her own bags. “What do you want?”

            “I need your help. You’re the only ones that can help me,” he pleaded.

            “Thanks, but I don’t want to relive _The Ghost Whisperer_.” Stiles sarcastically quipped. “That was enough of a let-down.”

            “You ain’t exactly Jennifer Love-Hewitt. I’ll take what I can get.” The man shot back. Lydia had to stifle a snort. “I’m begging you. I need your help; I was murdered last night.”

            “How can I believe that when I’m talking to you right now?” Stiles waved his hand at him.

            The man rolled his eyes. “Says the person talking to someone his friend and the rest of _the world_ can’t see. What’d your friend say I was? A ghost?”

            “Her name is Kira,” Lydia said.

            Hearing her name, she perked up. “What? Did he ask about me?” She looked around where they were talking and still couldn’t see anything. “What’s he saying?”

            Stiles ignored her. “Where were you supposedly murdered?”

            “Back in Chinatown. I can prove it.” After some notable silence and Stiles and Lydia sharing skeptically worried glances, the man sighs. His resolve is viably melting. “I’m desperate. I don’t know what else to do. You gotta help me.”

            Stiles was about to say something along the lines of ‘get lost’. He wanted to spend his Sunday worrying about birthday presents and surprise parties and the history paper he’s been neglecting for the past week, not a pushy ghosts.

            But before he could say anything, a bike messenger came peddling swiftly down the sidewalk. He had enough time to yell, “Watch out!” and pull his friends away before the messenger was speeding past –

            A sped right through the man who claimed he was a ghost.

            Stiles and Lydia both stood there, shocked at what they saw. The man, just as perplexed as they were, lightly patted himself to make sure he was still in one piece. He turned to them and gestured after the bike messenger.

            “Now do you believe me?”

**LATER**

Before going off in search of their ghost friend’s body, whose name was…. _is_ ….Adam, they dropped off the shopping bags in Stiles’ jeep. Kira stayed behind, too. She figured if she couldn’t see or hear the guy, she wouldn’t be of much use. Plus, someone had to phone Scott and tell him what was going on.

            Adam took them into the more ‘local’s only’ part of Chinatown; the part where two lily-white American teenagers were understandably noticed. Adam told them not to worry about anything; that as long as they were with him, nothing would happen. The only flaw was that no one else could see Adam.

            “Thank you,” Adam said again to Lydia. Stiles was leading the way through the back alley of some shops while Adam and Lydia brought up the rear. “For helping me.”

            “I guess we kind of have to,” She looked up at him. “Seeing as how we’re the only ones you can talk to.”

            “Shouldn’t we be going to the morgue or something?” Stiles asked. He stopped and waited for the others to catch up. “You said you were murdered. Why aren’t there any cops?”

            “Chinese people are naturally anti-police. Most of them are immigrants or first generation American. They thought of the police interfering in their lives, their community, brings up bad feelings.”

            “How much further?” Lydia asked.

            Adam pointed a head. “Not much.”

            As they started walking again, Lydia noticed Adam checking his watch. “Late for something?”

            “You could say that,” Adam chuckled darkly. When he looked at her, it was part worry, part sorrow. “I just need someone to find my body before it’s too late.”

            “I think it’s too late already, Casper,” Stiles said.

            Adam glared at Stiles’ back. “It’s an old Chinese myth. At least I always thought it was a myth. It's called Thowhoi, when the gates of hell open.” He glanced up at a white sign with red Chinese lettering hanging above a stoop. “We're almost there.”

            “The gates of hell?” Lydia asked. “I don’t understand.”

            “If the gatekeeper, Yama, catches my soul before my body is properly buried, he’ll take me to hell. _Forever_.”

            “But you said you were murdered.” Stiles asked over his shoulder. “How can-”

            “Yama doesn’t discriminate.”

            “Equal opportunity offender,” Stiles muttered under his breath. “Classy guy.”

            Adam turned to Lydia. “He doesn’t care about good or evil. Right or wrong. He just wants souls.”

            Lydia wasn’t paying attention to where she was going and walked right into Stiles. He stood in the center of the alley, stock still and staring down at something on the ground. Lydia could tell by the purposefully blank and withdrawn expression on his face that it was something bad. She stepped around him to look –

            She covered her mouth immediately to stifle a gasp. She took a step back. Caught between a dumpster and absolute filth, whatever was left of Adam Yao was an extra crispy, charred body; his flesh and other internal organs liquefied and adhering to the ground.

            “Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin,” Adam sighed. “I’d like you to meet me.”

            “Sorry man,” Stiles put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. It was the first time Stiles had been anything but sarcastic and rude.

            Down the alley, emerging from the fog and air conditioned blown dust, was a man in traditional Chinese warrior dress mounted on horseback. In one hand he held the horse’s reins, and in the other was a spear long enough to give Vlad the Impaler an erection. He began galloping towards them.

            “Yama…” Adam whispered.

            “Yama?” Stiles asked, turning around.

The horse was picking up speed. Yama, lowered his spear to mimic a jouster. Stiles feverishly looked around for something to knock Yama off his high horse with, but there was nothing like that around.

            “Why aren’t you running?” Lydia all but yelled at Adam. She grabbed his arm and began pulling him away.

            “It’s too late…” Adam said, resigned. He ripped his arm from Lydia’s grip and instead pushed her along. “Go! Go before he hurts you.”

            “Can we keep the negativity down?” Stiles asked. “No one’s getting dragged to hell tonight.”

            “Stiles, do something.” Lydia looked up at him. Yama was getting closer, they could smell the death and decay radiating off of him. She shook his arm. “Do something!”

            Out of fear, he raised his hands. He didn’t know if they would decide to work or not, but he had to give his powers a shot before they all were impaled. He squinted his eyes slightly and flicked his hands at Yama. He didn’t quite know how to use his hands to activate his power, but he thought Michael Fassbinder’s Magneto was pretty useful. Yama was safely frozen, his horse kicked up in mid-air.

            Adam began to relax. “What just happened?”

            “I’m a good witch, remember?” Stiles panted softly.

“But how?”

“I don’t know. I panic, put up both hands, and….and bad things tend to freeze.”

            “For how long…” Adam was already beginning to walk backwards slowly away from Yama.

            “Not very,” Stiles turned and began jogging away. “Let’s go.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, I fucking suck at Sterek angst and Derek's emptions in general. I'm sure i'll get better in time, with more writing, but for now please bear with me?   
> PLEASE, for the love of God, if you have ANY suggestions on slow-burning Sterek, or just angst and emotion in general, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment/message me.

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME**

“Isaac you can’t do this,” Scott said as he walked in, unannounced.

            “I can and I am.” Isaac said defiantly, shutting the front door behind him.

            “Can’t do what?” Malia asked. She was sitting on the couch in her sweats, eating a bowl of chocolate-chip ice cream, and trying to decipher math with Kira’s help.

            “The surprise party is _off_ ,” Isaac announced. He stepped around Kira, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Malia, and dropped into the arm chair.

            “What party?” Kira asked innocently enough.

            “He knows,” Scott bent down to quickly kiss Kira before sitting down next to Malia on the couch. “The restaurant called the house while I was taking a shower.”

            “Now it won’t be a surprise party.” Malia spooned some ice cream into her mouth. “Now it’s just a party.”

            “But I don’t want a _party_.” Isaac emphasized. He leaned forward and motioned for the ice cream. Malia passed the bowl down to Kira who leaned forward to hand it to Isaac. He shoveled in two spoonfuls and handed it back. He licked ice cream off the corner of his mouth as he leaned back. “It’s just a birthday. Nothing special.”

            “Says the person who’s alive to actually celebrate one,” Adam commented bitterly as he walked down the stairs a head of Stiles and Lydia.

            “Don’t take your death out on him,” Stiles said.

            The pack looked over at Stiles. “What?” Scott asked.

            Stiles looked from Adam to Scott. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

            “Who are these guys?” Adam moved to the edge of the living room, waving at the crowd.

            “This is my pack. Scott’s our Alpha and a werewolf,” Scott waved in Stiles’ general direction. Stiles went around the room introducing the members and their _species._

            Derek walked out of the kitchen with a plate of pizza in his hand and half a slice hanging out of his mouth.

            “Mal, where’d you say the paper was?” Derek asked walking _through_ Adam and taking a seat in the armchair beside Isaac. Lydia squirmed uncomfortably. Adam look annoyed.

            “And the asshole that walked through you is Derek, also a werewolf.”

            Derek looked up at space he just walked through and saw no one there. “That cold spot was the ghost?”

            “ _The ghost_ has a name.” Adam said.

            “His name is Adam,” Lydia told Derek. She sat on the arm of Isaac’s chair.

            “Hi Adam,” a couple people muttered in unison. Derek swallowed what he was chewing and half-heartedly apologized.

            “Been a ghost long?” Isaac asked. His eyes were darting around the entry of the living room, not sure where to talk to.

            “Adam was murdered and his corpse set on fire last night.” Stiles said. Everyone winced slightly.

            “On my birthday.” Adam added.

            “On his birthday,” Lydia relayed to the group.“He needs our help.”

            “How come you two are the only ones able to see him?” Scott asked.

            “I’m a witch and Lydia’s a banshee.” Stiles shrugged. “That’s all I can think of.”

            “I guess being able to predict death makes me able to see what comes after it.”

            “Maybe we should call your mom,” Malia suggested. She stuck out her spoon and began waving it around. Stiles and Lydia saw the spoon wave through Adam’s stomach with ease. Adam sighed and stepped back.

            “We’re not calling my mom,” Stiles said adamantly. Lydia kicked his shin. “At least not yet. Let’s see what we can do before we call in the Calvary.”

            “What can your mom do?” Adam asked.

            “Besides raise herself from the dead, I’m willing to bet a whole lot.” Seeing the hopeful expression on Adam’s face, Stiles added, “That was a one-time thing. Don’t get excited.”

            “On the phone, Kira said something about you guys being chased by a ghost buster?” Isaac asked. He tried not to smile at how ridiculous that sounded.

            “Yeah, Yama.” Lydia said. “He’s this…. _thing_ ….in full samurai armor riding a horse. He carries this lance to impale ghosts with to drag them to hell. He can’t be bargained with and he doesn’t discriminate. If you’re a ghost, you are going with him.”

            “How do we know this guys doesn’t really deserve to go to hell?” Derek asked, his glare falling a good foot away from Adam. “You’ve known him, for what, a couple hours?”

            “Hey!” Adam yelled.

            Lydia glanced between the two. “You offended him.”

            “My point still stands.”

            “Remember what my mom said when I first got my powers, that there would be ‘innocents’ I’d have to protect from evil? That _we’d_ have to protect?” Stiles waved at Adam. “That fact I can see him makes me think he’s one of those innocents.”

            “Protect from what? He’s dead.” Scott said. Derek gestured at Scott, nodding his head.

            “Look,” Adam said, stepping forward, “all I’m asking is for help getting back to my family for a proper burial. Then I’ll be able to move on.”

            Lydia, Adam’s self-appointed messenger, spoke for him. “We need to get his body back to his family for burial. Then he’ll move on.”

            “So call your dad. Let him handle it.” Malia spooned some more ice cream.

            “This was in Sacramento; Dad has no jurisdiction there.” Stiles rubbed his face. “But I did call the local P.D. We’re just giving them enough time to notify Adam’s mom before we talk to her.”

            “Talk to her?” Isaac repeated. He turned in the chair to look at Stiles full-on. “And tell her what? That you’re talking to the ghost of her dead son?”

            “I’m with Isaac on that one,” Scott said reluctantly.

            “We just want her to bury Adam as soon as possible before Yama finds him.”

            “When are you going to talk to her?” Kira asked.

            Stiles looked at Adam. “Around four should be good.”

            “Right after school,” Stiles answered.

            The back door opened with a click. “Stiles? Malia?” John called from the kitchen.

            “In here, Dad!” Stiles called back over his shoulder. He turned to the group. “Not a word about Adam, alright? He’s got enough on his mind without adding ghosts and ancient soul reapers to the mix.”

            “Is he like you or,” Adam pointed a thumb at the pack, “like them?”

            “Neither - he’s human.”

            John came around the corner and was slightly surprised by the gathering in his living room. “Am I interrupting something?”

            “No, we were just leaving.” Scott stood up. He reached down and pulled Kira off the ground. Scott patted John’s back as he walked by. “See ya Sheriff.”

            Everyone else either nodded or waved on their way out the door. Derek handed his empty plate to Stiles. Malia was right behind him. Confused, Stiles followed her to the door.

            “Hey, where’re you going?”

            She pulled her jacket on and stuffed her feet into her shoes carelessly, the backs of her sneakers bending under her heels. “I’m crashing at Derek’s tonight.”

            “You are?” Derek asked, turning around on the sidewalk, eyebrow raised.

            “Yeah,” she told him. She turned back to Stiles. “I’m not really comfortable sleeping near a ghost. Can’t see him, can’t fight him. Weirds me out.”

            “You’ll be upstairs and he’ll be on the couch. There’s a _whole_ staircase and a couple doors between you.”

            Malia shrugged, reiterating, “Weirds me out.”

            She trotted down the front stairs and to Derek’s car. Derek hesitated, glancing between Stiles and Malia, before following her down the sidewalk. Stiles stood in the doorway a moment before heading back inside. Adam and Lydia were still in the living room.

            “You’re dad went upstairs. I told him I was going to stick around for a while to work on Math.”

            “Alright,” Stiles sighed. “I’m making dinner. You guys want anything?”

            Adam arched his eyebrow. “Dude, I’m dead.”

            “Right….” Stiles awkwardly snapped his finger and pointed at Adam. “Sorry.”

            As Stiles was putting water on to boil, digging out Mac n. Cheese boxes from the pantry, the back door opened. He looked around the pantry door curiously to see Derek dropping a small gym bag on the kitchen table.

            “Uh,” Stiles droned, kicked the pantry door shit behind him as his hands were full of Kraft boxes. “What’re you doing? I thought you and Malia left?”

            “Gave Malia my keys. We’re swapping places until this thing is over.”

            “What?” Stiles fumbled the boxes in his surprise. As they shifted in his arms, two dropped. Stiles tried in vain to catch them with his already loaded arms, but was beat to it. A swift rush of wind and a blur of skin passed. Stiles looked up and saw Derek placing the two boxes on the counter next to the stove.

            Derek gave Stiles an incredulous look, reaching for the other boxes in Stiles’s arms. He repeated himself slowly, as if Stiles was mentally impaired. “I’m staying here.”

            “Why?” Stiles asked bluntly, coming off more annoyed than he seemed. Derek raised an eyebrow. “I-I mean, thanks but no thanks. I’ve got it covered.”

            “Says the one juggling boxed macaroni,” Derek glanced briefly in disgust at the boxes. “We don’t know when Yama might attack next. If he wants the ghost, and the ghost keeps hanging around, then you’re not leaving my sight. Got it?”

            “Adam.” Stiles reminded Derek. “ _The ghost_. His name is Adam.”

            “Not anymore.”

            Derek didn’t like what was going on. He didn’t like Adam (can’t see him, can’t fight him, can’t trust him) dumping his problems on Stiles. Effectively making them all on the run from Yama. More than likely, if Derek couldn’t see Adam, he probably couldn’t see Yama. That made him all the more anxious to be near Stiles.

            _Anxious_? Derek rolled the thought around in his head while he absentmindedly put the mac n cheese boxes back in the pantry. He made a mental note to remind Stiles about hereditary cholesterol. Was Derek anxious to be near Stiles? Sure, he’d been a little off since ‘bonding’ with the kid, but he’s attributed that to the general unease of dealing with the constant shit-storms Stiles’s brings with him. Even today, Derek was on edge. He paced his loft, boxed and sparred, even went running through the woods to burn off his excess energy. It only got worse as the afternoon dragged on before climaxing with a text call from Stiles.

            “ _Dead body in Sacramento. Brought home a ghost_.”

            Derek wasted no time in speeding to the Stilinski house, the roads becoming more familiar to him with every drive. He had barged into the house ready for an attack, claws extended, but relaxed when he saw Stiles standing beside Lydia in the living room. A little annoyed at Derek’s melodramatic intrusion, but unharmed. He felt a calm wash over him and checked his aggression. He ignored it for the most part, heading into the kitchen for pizza that Kira had ordered.

            That same nervousness gnawed at him when he prepared to leave Stiles’s house after the pack meeting. He convinced himself that since Malia was there, she’d be able to protect Stiles if anything were to happen. He could count on her loyalty to Stiles to keep the boy safe until Derek arrived. Hearing her decision to leave, Derek made his choice to turn back without hesitation. He tossed his keys at Malia, grabbed his gym bag from his trunk, and headed inside.

            “What are you doing?” Stiles’s voice brought Derek out of his head. Stiles had been watching Derek root around the pantry for various items, his trademark stoic expression giving nothing away in the silence.

            “Cooking.”

            “Cooking?” Stiles repeated the word slowly, as if it were foreign.

            “Yeah, Stiles.” Derek huffed. “I’m cooking you dinner.”

**LATER**

Adam sat on the edge of the couch, leaning over the coffee table in front of him. Slowly, he reached out one finger to press the power button on the remote. He tried this for several minutes, but got the same result – his finger would pass through the remote.

            He heard footsteps trotting down the stairs. He turned and saw Lydia with a bundle of blankets in her hands and a pillow on top. Lydia saw Adam’s broken expression.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “It's still new to me. I keep forgetting I'm….” He trailed off. He wasn’t ready to admit to himself that he was dead. He knew he was, he just didn’t want to come to terms with it just yet. He shrugged off the through and stood up, noticing what Lydia had in her hands. “Are those for me?”

            “Yeah.” Lydia chuckled, glancing down at the blankets and pillow in her hands. “Uh, stupid question….do ghosts sleep?”

            “I don’t even get cold anymore,” Adam quietly smiled.

            “Sorry,” Lydia muttered. She gently laid them on the armchair next to her.

            “It's okay, it's the thought that counts.” Adam smiled, but Lydia could tell it was strained. “I guess it's finally sinking in, what's really happened, what I've lost.” He sat back down on the couch. “No more sucking down a bucket of oysters at the wharf, playing pickup ball with friends, coming home and hearing my mother's voice on the machine nagging me 'cause I haven't married a _nice Chinese girl_.”

            Lydia smiled and sat down next to Adam. “Your mom means a lot to you.”

            “She’s a great friend.” He rubbed his hands together, rolling his eyes. “ _Was_.” They sat in silence for a moment while Adam collected his thoughts. “It was just me and her after my father died. Taught me everything I know. Especially how to cook. My mum is a _great_ cook.”

            “Stiles’ mom, too.” Lydia nodded with a smile. “My parents always used her to cater a dinner party or a holiday event or just a backyard barbeque. Anything you could think of, she could make and it would turn out better then you imagined. Even after her death – _the first one_ – my mom would talk about ‘Claudia Stilinski’s cooking’ nearly every holiday.” Lydia laughed. “Probably because one of us ended up burning dinner.”

            Adam laughed. “Have you ever made a Peking duck?”

            “No.”

            “Good.” Adam’s laughing became harder and Lydia motioned to slap him but he threw his hands up in jest.

            Lydia headed out soon after, promising Adam she’d be back the next morning. Adam walked her to her car to say goodnight. He remained downstairs the rest of the night, absentmindedly watching the late-night infomercials Stiles left on.

            Upstairs, Stiles was showering and getting ready for bed. When he walked into his room, struggling into his tee, his stopped in the doorway.

            “What’s that?” Stiles asked, pointing to the air-mattress in front of his closet. He honestly didn’t think he had one, and became even more confused thinking Derek had somehow managed to tuck it away in his gym bag.

            “What does it look like?” Derek asked, draping a heavy blanket over the mattress before tossing on a pillow.

            “It looks like an air mattress. In my room. With you about to get on it.”

            “Knew you were smart,” Derek grumbled under his breath. He made quick work of stripping on his t-shirt, tossing it on top of his open bag. Stiles couldn’t help but stare from the doorway – his eyes roving over the smooth muscles of his unbearably broad back. Stiles strangled a cough and moved towards his own bed, walking around Derek completely as the wolf dropped onto his blankets. Stiles made a noble effort not to stare at Derek’s chest, and the way dark hair trailed down his stomach before disappearing into his running shorts.

Stiles did not succeed.

“So,” Stiles asked, breaking the awkward silence as he nestled himself in his blankets. He turned on his side to look down at Derek lying on his back, hands folded over his stomach. His eyes were closed, giving him the momentary appearance of peacefulness. When his eyes snapped open to look at Stiles, the peace was gone, replaced by something dark fleeting Stiles couldn’t names before it disappeared.

“There’s another room you could be in.”

“That’s Malia’s.”

“And this is mine,” Stiles prompted him. “I’m here, she’s not.”

“Exactly,” Derek said as if that explained everything. He closed his eyes and nestled the back of his head into the pillow trying to get comfortable.

Stiles sputtered wordlessly. “No, not exactly! Personal space, Derek. You’re invading it.”

“Malia’s room is her territory. Being in there, without her, is the same thing. Rude. _This_ you can deal with.”

Stiles squinted his eyes in the dark at Derek, biting the inside of his lip. “It’s because it’s too fluffy, isn’t?”

“I don’t do fluffy,” Derek said, turning over so his back face Stiles. _Goodnight_ was unspoken and implied.

**LATER**

            Derek suddenly woke in a panic - his heart rate elevated, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on his chest. He sat up. His eyes darted around the room, quickly scanning for the unmistakable threat he felt. He sniffed the air, eyes flashing a golden honey brown. There was a heavy, sickly sweet scent of terror that saturated the room.

            “Stiles?” Derek whispered, glancing at the bed beside him. There, tangled in a mass of damp sheets, was Stiles writhing on the bed. His clothes were soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, his exposed skin slick with sweat.

            “Stiles!” Derek called out, panicked. He scrambled from the floor and onto the bed, gripping Stiles shoulders to keep him from flailing about. Tortured moans escaped his cracking chapped lips as they twisted cruelly. His eyebrows scrunched in agony, creating a deep ‘v’ between them.

            “Stiles!” Derek roared. He grabbed the boy’s face, holding it tight in one hand while he shook Stiles’s shoulder with the other. Thinking of nothing else, Derek dug his claws into Stiles’s shoulder. He was careful to break through the skin just deep enough to wake him up.

            It worked. Derek gently removed his claws the moment Stiles’s eyes popped open. They were wide in sheer horror, darting around him in panic. Being ripped out of his nightmare world and thrust into sudden darkness, Stiles fought in vain against the unknown weight pressing him into the mattress.

            “Stiles,” a familiarly stern voice called out to him. The hand holding his face squeezed gently, holding him still in a soft grip. The other hand that had been impaled in Stiles’s shoulder rested beside his bloodied shoulder on the mattress, leaving five distinct pinpricks of blood. “Stiles, it’s me.”

            “Derek,” Stiles moaned, his head rolling on the pillow, his eyes closed. He titled his head back, exposing his throat. Derek could visibly make out the throbbing pulse pressing urgently beneath Stiles’s pale skin. He brought his arm up to grip desperately at Derek’s bicep. His hands clenching and unclenching, aching for relief. His other hand twisted in the sheets, the blood from his shoulder running in languid streams down his arm. Stiles continued to move on the bed yet not as wildly as before; Derek remained leaning over him protectively.

            “It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek said softly. He removed his hand from Stiles’s face and placed in above them on the headboard. “You’re safe.”

            Derek and Stiles breathed heavily together until their chests fell to a normal pace. The sweat cooled their fevered bodies, causing Stiles to shiver slightly in the faint breeze of the overhead air conditioning. Derek felt Stiles’s body begin to tremble beneath him – adrenaline, the cold, lingering fear? Derek didn’t ask, couldn’t clearly sense one emotion from another in the convoluted haze wafting off of Stiles. He waited in tension filled silence, staring down at Stiles as he tried calming himself.

            “Is this real?” Stiles whimpered softly, a sob escaping his lips.

He screwed up his face in an attempt to stop the emotion from coming out, but it was too late. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hand as he began to sob. He kept the other hand on Derek’s arm, drawing a small security from the warm connection.

            His breath hitched as he asked again, “Is this real?”

            Derek couldn’t think of anything to say that would comfort Stiles. Instead, he pulled the boy up to him, one hand secured at the nape of his neck while the other pressed him closer. Stiles returned the embrace eagerly. He buried his face into the crook of Derek’s neck and found comfort in the familiar smell of leather and pine albeit tacky with sweat from the night’s terror. Even that Stiles found reassuring.

            “Stiles-” Derek began but broke off, unsure of himself. His finger nervously curled in the wisps of hair on the back of Stiles’s neck. His voice was low, secure yet gentle as he began again. “I don’t know what it is you saw. But I do know….whatever it was….it wasn’t you. Nothing happened to you. You haven’t done anything. You’re here, with me. You’re safe.”

            Derek whispered those two words over and over again into Stiles’s ear, his hair, until the exhaustion was too much he fell into a dreamless sleep in Derek’s arms. Derek was careful in laying Stiles down as to not wake him. He pulled the covers up to Stiles’ chin before sliding back down to his air mattress. Derek spent the next hour or so watching Stiles’s even breathing before he allowed sleep to take him.

**MORNING**

            Derek woke alone. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought Stiles was in danger. After last night, Derek didn’t know what to think. He shot up off the floor, more alert. He heard the distinct ding of the microwave downstairs.

            Derek dug a shirt out of his bag and slipped it on, padding down the hall then the stairs.

            Stiles sat at the table, hands wrapped around a steaming bowl of oatmeal. Small sugary ‘dinosaur eggs’ mixed in. Stiles jolted, blinking like he hadn’t realized Derek was there, and then his face lifted in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

            “Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

            Derek shook his head and waved the apology away. He was groggy, weighed-down by sleep, and yawned as he padded into the kitchen. He stood in front of the counter, pouring two cups of coffee, the pot still hot from John making it fresh earlier this morning. Derek asked over his shoulder, “You okay?”

Derek thought he did a good job of keeping his voice even, but Stiles scrunched his eyebrows. There was a trace of something else Stiles noticed. He’d call it _concern_ , but he through he knew Derek better than that. “What makes you say that?”

            Derek shrugged, returning to the table with the mugs in hands and placed one in front of Stiles. “Rough night, is all.”

            Stiles sat in silence as he mixed the creamer and sugar in the way he liked it. He wrapped his hands around the mug and smiled. “Nothing new.”

            Stiles took a sip of coffee and watched as Derek took the seat across from him. He drank his coffee in silence, keeping a watchful eye on Stiles, waiting for him to open up on his own. When he doesn’t, Derek asks,

            “Where’s Adam?”

            “Living room,” Stiles gives a nod in that direction. “Still don’t trust him after _not_ murdering me in my sleep?”

            Derek remained silent, letting that speak for him. Stiles shook his head and stood up. He could feel Derek’s eyes on him as he brought his empty bowl to the sink. Derek sipped his coffee casually, but watched every little move Stiles made. That same look would normally make Stiles squirm, but now there was the slightest difference that put him as ease. Concern. Care.

            “You’re not sleeping,” Derek remarked, not making it a question, as Stiles sat down again. Derek narrowed his eyes as he leaned back in the chair, slouching slightly, his legs extending under the table, closer to Stiles. It was an invasion of space in a small, yet comfortable way.

            “Not really, no,” Stiles answered honestly.

            “Nightmares.” Stiles nodded. Derek tapped his fingers against his mug. “Nogistine?”

            Stiles shrugged. He leaned further on the table, elbows splayed, hands wrapped around his mug. “Sometimes. Other times….” He shook his head. “I just can’t get somethings out of my head, you know?”

            Derek nodded in understanding. The hurt he’d seen in Stiles face last night was life a knife to the chest.

            “I want to tell you, Derek,” Stiles’s eyes were adamant, and Derek was unsure how he should react. Derek wanted to tell Stiles in turn that seeing him like that was painful, but he didn’t. Instead he kept his mouth shut and waited. “I feel like I _need_ to tell you.”

            “Okay,” Derek nodded, more to himself than to Stiles. “You can tell me anything.”

            Stiles looked down at his hands. He had no idea _where_ to start, or even if he _could_ start. He hadn’t ever opened up to anyone about his nightmares – past or present – hadn’t _had_ to. Never thought anyone was willing to listen.

            “I…” He trailed off, glancing out the window. He noticed Lydia’s unmistakable car pulling into the driveway. The engine cut off and she made her way to the door. Stiles could hear Derek make a frustrated little noise.

“To be continued,” Stiles chuckled, getting up from the table to let Lydia in. He noticed Adam standing impatiently by the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**MONDAY EVENING**

**MRS. CHAO’S HOME**

            “Are you sure about this?” Stiles asked. He had asked that question over and over again on the ride over here. Lydia undid her seat belt and opened the passenger door.

            “Positive.”

            Stiles glanced up in the rear view mirror at Adam. Adam shrugged and followed Lydia out of the Jeep. Lydia shut the door and leaned in through the open window.

            “I’ll be back in a little bit. There’s no need to worry.”

            “Worry?” Stiles scoffed. “There’s a harmless old lady-”

            “Watch it, Sabrina.” Adam snapped. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

            Stiles ignored Adam. “I just don’t think you should be doing this by yourself.”

            “I won’t be alone.” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled reassuringly at Adam. She patted the Jeep and turned to walk up the sidewalk to Mrs. Chao’s home. It was a creamy egg-shell color with white doors and trim.

            To get all her nervous feelings out she shook her hands and rolled her neck.

            “Warming up?” Adam joked. He saw how nervous she was and softened his tone. “This will work. Just repeat everything I say. She’ll trust you that way.”

            Before Lydia could say something back, the front door opened and Mrs. Chao stepped out. She was a small woman, wrinkled with age and hard work. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, streaks of grey showing.

            “Can I help you?” She asked kindly.

            Lydia quickly glanced towards Adam before repeating his words, _“Nín hǎo. (_ Hello _). Wǒ de míngzì shì féi jiě,” (_ My name is Lydia). _Wǒ yào hé nǐ tán tán_. (I need to talk to you).”

            Mrs. Chao was taken aback. “ _Nǐ shuō zhōngguó huà_?”

                Lydia glanced towards Adam. “She asked if you spoke Chinese. Say-”

            “ _Bèi lì zī, tā shì guānyú jīn_. (Sort of, it’s about Adam),” Lydia repeated.

            Mrs. Chao took Lydia by the hands. “ _Nǐ zhīdào tā zài nǎlǐ?_ ”

            Adam looked confused. “She…She asked if you know where I am.”

            “Wait,” Lydia said. “You….you don’t?”

            “No,” Mrs. Chao shook her head, close to tears. “I'm worried sick. I haven't heard from him since his birthday. That’s three days now.”

            “The police haven’t notified her yet?” Adam asked.

            “How’s that possible?” Lydia said slowly, answering both Adam and his mother. “I mean…that he hasn’t contacted you.”

            “It is not like Adam at all. He always calls.” She squeezed Lydia’s hand. “When did you last see him?”

            Lydia hesitated. She had no idea what to say.

            “Lydia,” Adam took a step closer. “Lydia you have to tell her where my body is!”

            Lydia glanced at Adam. Mrs. Chao looked, too, but only saw Stiles watching intensely from his jeep.            

            “I can’t,” Lydia whispered under her breath. Mrs. Chao looked at her. “I-I can’t remember when I last saw him. But if I see him, or hear from him, I’ll make sure he calls you.”

            Lydia gently pried her hands out of Mrs. Chao’s grip and walked down the small porch. Mrs. Chao’s thanks called after her as she made her way to the jeep.

            “You can’t walk away! You have to tell her!” Adam shouted at Lydia. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother open the front door and begin walking back into the house. “Mom, no!”

Adam ran to the door, yet when he touched it, he was bounced back immediately. He landed at Lydia’s feet as she whirled around to see what happened. Lydia looked back up at the door and saw a small dragon medallion swinging from a hook beside the door, the dragon’s eyes glowing.

“The stories were true….” Adam mumbled as he stood up. “All the Chinese fairytales she told me growing up were true.”

            “But what does _that_ ,” Lydia pointed at the medallion, “mean?”

            “It means that I’m going to burn in hell.”

**NIGHT**

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME**

Lydia was trying to help Stiles with his English paper for the past hour. It wasn’t great, but it was getting there. Adam was helping, too. Although he _was_ majoring in biochemistry, he had a minor in English literature. Adam and Lydia were helping to the point where Stiles would right the basic, rough draft and they would critique and fix it paragraph by paragraph until it was passable.

            Derek casually laid back in an armchair with a book, paying more attention to the back-and-forth Lydia was having with the air beside her.

            When Stiles’ phone chirped, he didn’t feel bad answering it. It wasn’t like he was writing a paper.

            “Hello,” Stiles greeted, yet it came out more like ‘yellow’.

            “ _Turn on the news,”_ Kira hurriedly demanded.

            “What?”

            “They found Adam’s body!”

            Stiles awkwardly juggled the phone while standing up in a spastic burst of energy. Adam and Lydia both looked extremely concerned when he launched himself over them, landing on his stomach in front of the TV. Derek was more or less accustomed to it by now. He reached up and slammed his hand on the ‘on’ button on the base. John always kept the living room TV tuned to the news, so Stiles didn’t have to flip through channels.

            “ _Although police report that the body was burned beyond recognition..._ ” The female reporter’s voice drifted through the room.

            Adam stiffened when the camera man moved to get a better angle of the body, zooming in past the police and yellow tape. Lydia turned to smile at Adam and saw him close his eyes and lean back into the couch, sighing with relief.

            “It’s finally over.”

            “ _From personal affects found at the scene, preliminarily identify him as Mark Wen, head of the Chinatown triad in San Francisco.”_ A mug shot of Mark Wen appeared on the screen. He looked like he could have been Adam’s cousin, their facial bone structure was so similar. “ _Wen fled San Francisco Police custody earlier this week. Prior to finding his body in Sacramento, he was believed to be headed to Los Angeles.”_

“That-That can't be,” Adam stood up and pointed angrily at the television. “That's the guy who killed me!”

            “So he’s still alive,” Stiles mused. Before he could finish, Adam cut in.

            “Of course he’s alive! That’s _my_ body they found!” He huffed and collapsed back onto the sofa. He shook his head, complete dismay filling his face.

            “Why would he want to kill you? Do you know him somehow?” Lydia asked.

            “Why, because all Chinese people know each other? That there’s only a handful of last names to go around?”

            “Don’t get snippy,” Stiles said. He grabbed an M&M from the small dish by his text book and threw it at Adam. Adam glared at him when it passed through.

            Lydia positioned herself so Adam could see how sincere she was. “All I’m suggesting is that he’d have to have a reason to kill you. He just fled police custody and was in hiding. I don’t think he had a random urge to burn someone’s corpse.”

            “Lydia’s got a point. Maybe he killed you to steal your identity? You two do look alike.”

            “That’s racist.” Both Adam and Derek chorused. Stiles tossed an M&M at Derek, too.

            “Okay, Wen is alive and using your name to most likely leave the country. News of his death probably hasn’t spread that far yet so he’d want to stay local to Sacramento for now, since there’s no one looking for him there.” Lydia had thought this through. “Is there any place you can think of in Chinatown that could be a ‘safe harbor’ to a guy like Wen? Or maybe has business that would require them to ship large containers?”

            After a moment, Adam’s eyes widened. “There is one place that’s Triad friendly – Warhai. The owner’s nephew is a member. Mr. Wo is an antique dealer, so he’s always down at the docks with his truck.”

            “Perfect!” Stiles jumped up, a smile on his face. “We go there tonight-”

            “Whoa there, Skippy,” Lydia reached out to grab his arm, but Derek got to him first. “There is _no_ way we could do _anything_ tonight.”

            “Why not?” Both Adam and Stiles asked.

            Lydia waved her hand to the TV screen where the reporter was still talking. “The news will be crawling all over the place. And Wen would be _more_ cautious right now than ever.”

            “She’s right,” Derek agreed. He pulled Stiles further into the living room before letting go. “Tonight, we plan.”

            “And the plan would be…?” Adam asked.

Lydia tossed Stiles his phone. It had fallen by her feet in his haphazard attempt to turn on the TV. “Call Scott. Tell him what we know. After school tomorrow, we’ll head to the warehouse looking for Wen. We could use the werewolf backup while the three of us find Wen.”

“Four,” Derek included himself. He’d provide all the backup necessary, but wasn’t going to leave Stiles alone in a Triade warehouse with a known murderer.

“And what happens when we find him?” Stiles asked.

Lydia looked mildly concerned, biting her bottom lip. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

**TUESDAY EVENING**

**WARHAI ANTIQUES WAREHOUSE**

Luckily the whole pack didn’t tag along, just Scott and Isaac, because they would have been seriously let down. There were two men patrolling the outside – one on ground level and the other on the second floor walk-way. From what Scott could hear, there were four men inside.

            The brothers easily took out the two patrols quietly in a matter of minutes. Their unconscious bodies were tied up and tucked away for their friends to find _after_ they left.

            “So,” Isaac said, jumping down from the second floor walkway. He had made a secondary sweep of the outside to make sure they were alone. “What’s the plan?”

            “Uh,” Stiles glanced over his shoulder at the warehouse and then at Lydia and Adam. “We go inside.”

            “What’s with the newspaper?” Scott asked.

            Lydia rolled the paper nervously in her hands. “Stiles is going to freeze Mark Wen long enough so we can get a picture of him with today’s paper.”

            “Then we turn the picture over to the police-”

            “Anonymously.” Adam interrupted Stiles.

            “Anonymously,” Stiles gritted his teeth and repeated what Adam said for the rest of the group. “And the cops will handle it from there.”

            “Nice plan,” Derek commented. Adding, “ _If_ your powers decide to work.”

            “Hey, don’t be such a Debbie Downer, alright?” Stiles lightly shoved Derek aside to reach into the back of his jeep to retrieve his baseball bat. Scott smiled.

            “Isaac, patrol outside. Let us known is anyone shows.” Isaac nodded at Scott’s orders. “Derek, you and I provide support inside?” Derek nodded in agreement.

Adam was growing impatient. “Can we go now? Or do you want to waste more time while my killer enjoys my life?”

            “Ghosty is getting upset,” Stiles said. He patted Scott’s shoulder as he, Lydia, and Adam walked into the warehouse. Scott kept his eye on his watch. One minute and he and Derek would enter.

            The warehouse was like a maze of old junk – some boxed up and labeled in Chinese script while others were left lying around with only paper tags loosely attached. It took five minutes for them to find their way towards the back of the warehouse where Adam said there would be a staircase.

            Halfway up the staircase, Adam stopped.

            “What is it?” Lydia asked, turning to him.

            “They've got an amulet on the door; I can't go in.”

            Stiles walked up the last two steps to unhook the amulet from its hook. He rolled it up and shoved it in his pocket. “Not anymore.”

            Stiles took a moment to collect himself at the door. Lydia stepped onto the small landing next to him. Adam stood a couple steps behind them.

            Lydia touched his arm. “Scared?”

            “Terrified.” Stiles smiled.

            Lydia smiled back. “Good.”

            Adam looked at them strangely. “How is any of this good?”

            Lydia ignored him. She kept her eyes fixed solely on the door, her hand on the knob. “On the count of three. One….two….three!”

            She yanked the door open and Stiles rushed in, throwing his hands up. Squinting and jazz hands were an unconscious by-product of using his powers. Until he could control the freezing, he’d have to put up with it.

            The four men in the room froze where they were, confused and reaching for their weapons. Three of the thugs surrounded the desk where Mark Wen sat counting money. With the men frozen, Stiles waved in Lydia. She rushed to Wen, put the newspaper in his hands – with the headline ‘MARK WEN FOUND DEAD’ clearly readable – and snapped a picture with her phone.

            The men unfroze just as Lydia took the picture, it seemed.

            “Time to go!” Adam yelled.

            Stiles grabbed Lydia by the arm and dragged her out the door. They toppled over boxes and kicked furniture into the path behind them to block Wen and his men. Isaac and Derek were already in the Jeep, the motor running. Scott was mounted on his bike behind them. Isaac was standing up in the passenger seat, yelling at them to move faster and waving his hand.

            Isaac threw the door open for Lydia to hop in. Stiles gracelessly dove in after her. Somehow, Adam managed to stay with the jeep as Derek hit the gas before Stiles had a chance to close the door.

            Wen and his men ran out of the building, guns drawn and aiming at the blue jeep. They fired, but luckily – for John’s sake – nothing hit. Unknown to the getaway vehicle, Wen caught the license plate number and began furiously writing it down on the back of his hand.

**STILES’ JEEP**

With Derek and Isaac up front and Lydia and Adam in the cramped back seat, there really wasn’t anywhere for Adam to sit….if he were alive, that is. Being a ghost is somewhat of a blessing when it comes to quick getaways in compact vehicles. Only Stiles was unnerved that Adam’s head was sticking out through the back of the Jeep, between Lydia and Stiles.

            Stiles had ignored Adam and Lydia’s talking for the most part of the ride and instead chastised Derek for his ‘reckless’ driving of the Jeep. Isaac was trying not to laugh when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Lydia animatedly talking to herself. He knew she was talking to Adam, but it was still funny to see. He gave Derek a toothy grim instead.

            Lydia stopped talking after a while and began writing down something in the notes page in her phone. Stiles glanced over and saw what looked like a recipe.

            “What’s that?”

            “My grandfather's recipes. Or at least the really good ones I can remember. They've been serving these in my family's restaurant for decades. They're yours and Lydia’s now.”

            “But they belong in your family.” Stiles said softly, touched by what Adam was offering him. It wasn’t much on the whole scale of ‘returning a body back to its family’ and ‘saving a soul from hell’, but it was all Adam had to give.

            “That’s what I told him,” Lydia muttered without looking up from her phone.

            “I want you to have them. For everything you've done for me.” Adam was quiet for a moment before smiling and nodding at Isaac. “One condition - use them for your friend’s surprise party.”

“He hates surprises.”

 **“** Birthdays are important. I know, I walked out of my last one and it never occurred to me that I wouldn't get another. He may not know it, but he needs to celebrate his birthday. We all do.” He glanced at Lydia and smiled. “Don't take it for granted.”

            “Who says I’m taking anything for granted?” She drawled, her perfectly trimmed eyebrow raised. Adam shook his head and chuckled.

**LATER**

            After dropping off a copy of the photo with the police, with Adam’s name identifying him as the corpse written on the back, the pack headed home. Derek dropped Isaac off first before heading back to the Stilinski house. Stiles pestered Derek enough to be allowed to drive _his own jeep_ on the way back. Derek gave in. Stiles was eager to get back behind the wheel - he smiled and cackled like a mad-man, rubbing the steering wheel affectionately.

            “Is he always like this?” Adam muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Lydia.

            “Unfortunately,” She sighed.

**STILINSKI FAMILY HOME**

            When Stiles pulled into the driveway, there was an unfamiliar black sedan parked behind John’s sheriff patrol car. Derek’s Camaro was still parked on the street, in front of the house.

            “Expecting company?” Lydia asked as she unfastened her seatbelt.

            Stiles shook his head. His brow furrowed as he got out of the jeep, but Derek pulled him back in. “Wait here.”

            The three amigos waited anxiously inside the Jeep as Derek opened the front door cautiously. They saw him relax in the doorway; it was Stiles who noticed the strain and uncertainty that remained in Derek. Derek turned and waved them over.

            “It’s your mom,” he said quietly. The tips of Stiles’s ears began to turn pink.

            Lydia tried hiding her smile, but when she looked at Adam, she couldn’t help but chuckle with him.

            “Haha, very funny,” Stiles mocked them as he went in, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his coat. “Make fun of the guy being cautious. It’s not like we just turned in a murder who faked his own death and not two hours ago was shooting at us.”

            “I do hope you’re kidding.” Claudia Cole turned the corner with a glass of wine in her hand. She was barefoot, wearing jeans and a pastel shirt. Her hair was lightly twisted into a messy bun. A very casual mom look that still showed how gorgeous she was.

            “Yeah, absolutely,” Stiles quickly said. Derek nodding.

            “Just kidding.” Lydia nodded.

            “Bad joke.” Adam automatically said. He didn’t think Claudia would hear him, but when she turned to him with a smile, he was taken aback.

            “Bad joke indeed.” She shifted her wine glass to the other hand so she could shake hands with Adam. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Stiles’s mom.”

            “A-Adam,” he stuttered out. Not thinking, he reached out his hand to shake hers. “Adam Chao.”

            When his hand passed through hers, he quickly yanked it back. His and everyone else’s eyes going wide. Except Claudia; she raised an eyebrow and turned her hand side to side.

            “A ghost, huh?” She looked back up at Adam with kindness and understanding. “How long?”

            “A couple days.” Adam gestured to Stiles and Lydia. “They’re helping me get my body back to my family before Yama drags me to hell.”

            “Yama is the Gatekeeper of Del Huoy, the opening to the gates of Chinese Hell. He is a soldier on horseback, glowing green eyes, captures souls by impaling them on his stick.” Stiles nervously rattled off nervously. “Fun guy. Equal opportunity offender. Very progressive. I like it.”

            “I know who Yama is, baby.” Claudia said. Her voice grew stern as she spoke to Lydia and Stiles equally. “And I would have appreciated a call to inform me that he was riding around town. Anything spooky or supernatural related, I’m one of your first calls. Got it?”

            She fixed them with a withering maternal stare until they conceded, bobbing their heads and averting their gaze. She turned to Derek. “You too, Derek. Your job may be to protect him, but you can’t do it alone.”

            When Derek nodded, she turned back to Stiles. “Have you told your father about Mr. Chao?”

            “No…” Stiles said, looking away from his mother.

            “Hopefully Adam can get back to his family before we _have_ to tell your father.”

“Back to lying, are we?” Stiles grumbled.

“ _Enough_ , Stiles. Enough.” Claudia sighed wearily. Next time-”

            “I’ll tell him.” Stiles finished her sentence.

            Claudia smiled warmly at their guests, seeing the awkwardness in their faces. “Lydia, Derek, are you both staying for dinner? I’m cooking.”

            Lydia glanced from Stiles to his mom. “If it’s no trouble…”

Claudia pointed over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “Go wash up before the Sheriff comes back down stairs and eats it all.”

Derek wasted no time in escaping the family tension.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Lydia said as they walked off after Derek to the kitchen. She was taking off her boots and hanging up her coat when suddenly the front door kicks open and three of Wen’s men barge in. They quickly grab Lydia, locking her feet and covering her mouth, and carry her out the door.

“Help! Somebody help!” Adam, helpless to do anything, yelled for help. “Stiles! Stiles, they’re taking Lydia!”

Claudia and Stiles ran into the foyer. Derek wasn’t far behind, alarmed at their shift in attitude.

“What’s wrong?” Claudia asked, a butcher knife in hand. “What happened?”

“They took her,” He gestured to the broken front door. “Wen’s men took Lydia.”

            “They’re taking her to the warehouse!” Stiles growled. He picked up his shoes and fished his keys out of his pocket. He and Derek were running out the door as John was running down the stairs with his service gun drawn. He was sopping wet with white foaming shampoo in her hair wearing nothing but a towel.

            “Claudia! Stiles!” John yelled.

            “Sorry about the front door. I’ll explain later.” Claudia hurriedly said as she grabbed her jacket off the coat rack. “Rain check on dinner?”

            Adam and Claudia rushed out the door, leaving John in a bath towel in the broken doorway to watch them speed away.


	11. Chapter 11

**WARHAI ANTIQUES WAREHOUSE**

Mark Wen sat behind the desk, loading bullets individually into a gun. He made a point out of making the distinctive noise so that Lydia would know what he was doing. She was tied to a chair winging the desk.

            “The first time I saw you I thought you were a ghost.” Wen confessed.

            “Why did you kill Adam?” She asked bluntly, bypassing his less than impressive scare tactic.

            Wen cocked his gun as he stood up. He walked over to Lydia and yanked her hair, pulling her head back to look at him. She hated seeing that evil smirk on his face; grinning with rotting teeth.

            “Because I needed his identity.” His smile turned cruel as he pulled her hair harder. Lydia winced. “Who else knows I'm alive? I had _plans_. I had a boat ready to take me to Hong Kong. I had a whole new life and you screwed it all up.

**DOWN STAIRS**

Adam and Stiles led the way in. With her telekinetic powers, Claudia whisked any guards away with the flick of her wrist; the ones she couldn’t get to, Derek silently dispatched.

            Claudia and Stiles were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Adam to return. She sent him up there to scout out the room, refusing to go in without knowing what they were walking into. Adam came down the stairs so fast, it looked as if he was floating. For all Stiles knows, he could have been.

            “They have her upstairs. Three men total. All carrying guns.” Adam’s eyes grew wide. He pointed behind them, yelling, “Look out!”

            Claudia turned in time to see a guard run in and point a semi-automatic weapon at them. Derek stepped in front of Stiles. The man’s finger was squeezing the trigger as Claudia hurled him into a pile of painful-looking boxes.

**UPSTAIRS**

            Wen’s attention was pulled away by the quick burst of gun fire. He snapped orders at his men in Chinese, waving his gun at them. They unholstered their guns and moved towards the stairs. Wen pulled a rather large knife off the desk. Lydia thought he was going to cut her throat with it, but instead he began cutting the rope that bound her.

            “Try anything and I will kill you slowly and painfully with this.”

           For emphasis, he stopped cutting to point the knife at Lydia’s stomach and give just enough pressure that it’d hurt without drawing blood.

**DOWNSTAIRS**

            Stiles and Claudia race up the stairs. Stiles took off the pendant barring Adam from entering the door. He took a step back and nodded to Claudia.

            With a flick of her wrist, the door swung open. The moment they stepped inside, Wen lifted his gun and fired near point-blank range at Claudia.

            “Look out,” was all Lydia could scream before the crack of gunfire went off and the muzzle glowed.

            Stiles threw his hands in the air as Claudia took a step back into her son, her left arm protectively shielding him. The bullet froze mid-air along with Wen.

            Claudia slapped the bullet out of the air and onto the ground while Derek went to Lydia.

            “How long does this last again?” Adam asked.

            “Not very,” Claudia said. She kept her eyes fixed on Wen as she waved for Derek to hurry up.

Wen unfroze. Seeing only Claudia in front of him, he turned. He jumped when he saw Lydia standing with her arm around Derek’s waist. He raised his gun to shoot, but Claudia flung him out of the office window before he could pull the trigger.

            Wen landed on a pile of empty cardboard boxes. He scrambled to get up, but finally managed. He collected his gun and ran out.

            Hearing sirens, they rushed to the outer window facing the street. Below, Wen had exited the warehouse and entered a police ambush. Four squad cars were strategically placed to corner in the front doors.

            Stupidly and without thought, Wen raised his gun. The police had no choice but to shoot. After a hail of bullets, the fight lasted seconds and Wen was on the ground, bleeding out into the dirt.

            “I’ve never seen anyone killed before,” Claudia muttered silently, more to herself than anyone around her. Seeing the strange look her son was giving her, she rephrased. “Human, I mean.”

            “Come one,” Stiles put a hand on his mom’s arm. “We need to get out of here before anyone sees us.”

**ALLEY BEHIND WAREHOUSE**

            The group left through the emergency fire escape in the back of the building, Derek insisting on carrying Lydia until they got to the Jeep. As they were making a run for it, they heard someone running behind them. They turned –

            It was Mark Wen…or at least the ghost of Mark Wen.

            He nearly fell when he stopped running at the sight of Adam. “Y-You’re dead!” He sputtered.

            “So are you,” Adam said venomously.

            Through a whirlwind of dust spinning at the mouth of the alley, Yama rode forth on his horse.

            “Adam…” Lydia reached out to grab him, but her hand fell through. “You better get out of here.”

            But Adam did the opposite. He stepped forward, grabbed Wen by the collar and pulled him close. “Make a wish, asshole.”

            He shoved Wen directly onto Yama’s spear. He shook violently for a moment before disintegrating into white smoke. Yama breathed him in; the eye sockets of his helmet glowed yellow.

            Yama directed his horse forward. He was coming for Adam next. Adam didn’t move. He held his head high and closed his eyes. He knew what was coming. He knew he would be dragged to hell along with Mark, a man who truly deserved it. Yet he didn’t care. Adam wanted to be at peace. If Yama was the one to bring him that peace, so be it. At least he would know he took down the man who killed him before doing so.

            “No!” Lydia yelled. She ripped herself away from Derek as he tried to stop her from throwing herself in front of Adam. “You can’t have him! He’s a good man; he doesn’t belong with you.”

            “Lydia…” Adam tried warning her.

            “No, she’s right.” Claudia took a step forward and held Lydia’s hand. Stiles joined her, Derek more so out of obligation. Together, they formed a barrier between the spirits. “Yama can’t take human life. He doesn’t have that power.”

            Yama slowly and deliberately walked his horse forward, testing the limits of the group. He was a breaths distance away from skewering Lydia. Testing _him,_ she took a step forward. Yama was forced to step back. Just as Claudia said, he didn’t have the power. They did.

            With an un-earthly growl, Yama disappeared through the whirlwind of dust. Only the embers of his eyes shown through the dust before it settled.

**ADAM’S FUNERAL**

            Lydia stood off to the side with Claudia and the rest of the pack. Although they didn’t know Adam, never even saw him, they still came out to support her and Stiles. Adam knelt on the ground beside his mother’s chair where she sat crying. She was surrounded by family but she felt utterly alone.

            As the funeral was concluding, Adam slowly walked up to where they stood. He nodded his head for Lydia to join him. Claudia rubbed her shoulders as she left.

            “All those stories,” Adam started off saying. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his head was down. He walked slowly and kicked every pebble that came into his path. “All those legends she taught me. She saved my soul…She was right.”

            “That’s what moms are for,” Lydia smiled. It was hard enough during the funeral to keep from crying, but this was breaking her heart.

            He nodded. “Tell Isaac not to miss his birthday. Not any of them. They’re precious.”

            “I will,” Lydia nodded back.

            “I wish-”

            “I know.” She quickly swiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks before Adam could see them. “Me too.”

            Across the small graveyard, by a red bridge covering a koi pond, a Chinese man in a tailored suit appeared. He was tall, yet stocky. Bald on top, but with hair circling the sides of his head. He smiled patiently at them.

            “Who’s that?’

            Adam looked up to see who she was talking about. He stopped and smiled. “That’s my dad.” When he looked back at Lydia, his smile faltered. “I guess this means goodbye, huh?”

            Adam reached out to wipe a tear off her face, but then remembered he couldn’t touch her. He let his hand linger by her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into it. After a moment, she opened her eyes and took a step back from him.

            It was time for him to go.

            Adam turned without another word and walked to his father. His father embraced his with open arms and they faded away.

**McCALL FAMILY HOME**

**EVENING**

The pack, exhausted from the drive and grim memories of previous funerals, came in through the front door and kicked off their shoes.

            “I changed my mind,” Isaac said. He shrugged off his coat, unwrapped his scarf, and hung them up in his peg.

            “About what?” Derek asked. He had his arm around Lydia, her hand on his waist. She was still a little shaken from this afternoon.

            “About the party.” He turned to the pack and gestured to the door. “Adam was right, I guess.”

            “Well, baby brother,” Scott said, smiling wolfishly and throwing his arm around Isaac’s shoulders. He began steering him towards the living room. “I’m glad you said that.”

            Scott and the rest of the pack shoved Isaac into the dark room. The lights flick on to show a crowded room of people, all yelling “Surprise!”

            Isaac playfully placed a hand over his heart to imitate a heart attack.

            “Don’t you start with me,” Melissa said, smiling as she walked up to her boys. She embraces Isaac, whispering in his ear, “Happy birthday, baby.”

            “Thanks….mom.”

**PETER’S APARTMENT**

Peter was walking towards his living room with a glass of wine in one hand, and Claudia’s business proposal in the other. He had been reading it over since she dropped it off on her way to a funeral this morning. She said something about a ghost kid and yams, but Peter was hardly paying attention to what she was saying. He was more interested in what she was _wearing_.

            She wore Armani. He _loved_ the way Armani fit her, clinging to her curves, silhouetting them till they bordered on the line between mysterious and sexy. The dress itself was black (of course) with an off-the-shoulder neck line and long sleeves. It hugged her well, gently flowing till it ended modestly above her knee. She wore pearls in her ears. Her hair was pinned into a loose, messy bun that was at the same time elegant.

            As she spoke, he leaned against the doorframe, bare chested and boxer-briefed, imagining himself unpinning her soft hair. He stood in the middle of the hallway now, bringing that lustful image back into his mind. He smiled.

            He brought his glass up to his lips to sip –

            As a military grade tomahawk axe was thrown just seconds before the sweet wine touched his lips. The axe implanted itself in Peter’s chest. He lost control of his limbs, the wine glass and papers fell to the floor. Peter fell to his knees before falling back. He landed on shards of glass; his blood mixing with the wine, staining the paper.

            Out of the darkness, a figure crept towards Peter. He was dressed in black from head-to-toe, all except his head. That was clearly visible. Peter was able to see his assailant’s corpse-like face – pale, sunken eyes, hallow and dead, with purple shadows beneath them. What struck Peter as strange was not the weapon in his chest, piercing his heart and other vital organs, but the fact his assassin had no mouth. Where his mouth should have been was nothing but smooth skin; as if he never had a mouth to begin with.

            Peter was losing consciousness fast from the shock and blood loss. He was doing everything he could to stop the urge of passing out. He needed to stay awake long enough for Claudia to find him. He was expecting her after the funeral. Peter rolled his eyes towards the clock on the wall. She would be here any minute. That meant…….

            Peter tried to cause himself to shift, advance the healing process, so he could kill this _thing_ before it could kill him, and most likely Claudia the moment she walked in.

            The man saw his struggling. He raised his arm and flipped open a screen protector. He began typing on a little keyboard attached to his forearm. A dethatched, synthetic voice came from the device,

            “Do not worry, Peter. Your day will come.”

            The man lowered his arm and walked over him. Moments later, it all faded to black for Peter.

**HOUR LATER**

            Peter was forcefully woken by a searing pain in his chest. He arched his back, screaming in horrendous pain, as the axe was torn from his chest.

            “Hush up before your neighbors call the cops.” Claudia said as she wrapped the bloody axe in the scraps of shirt she had to cut off Peter. She put it off to the side.

            The pain and shock of sudden extraction caused his vision to go black with white spots for a couple moments. He coughed and sputtered blood – it was black. Peter could taste the wolfsbane.

            He looked down at himself. Glorious body that he had (if he vainly said so himself), was marred by a deep gash in the center of is chest oozing with black blood. He followed a drop of blood as it rolled down his happy trail, lower, and lower…..

            Out of the haze he could see a pair of beautifully sculpted legs clad in grey draw-sting capri sweats. Following the spread hips straddling him, and working his way up the Smith’s vintage shirt to the angelic face glaring down at him.

            “Pinch me, I’m dreaming,” Peter smiled drowsily up at her.

            She smiled back, but there was a glint in her eyes. She raised her hand and flicked the switch a lighter. “Oh, I’ll do more than pinch you, sweetheart.”

            “I think I can handle a little fire,” he squirmed playfully beneath her. He was beginning to like this little game. Fire wasn’t one of his kinks, but he could be persuaded to like it.

            Her smile grew as she raised her other hand. In it was a small welding torch. She touched the gas tip to the lighter. Peter’s snarky face fell into something between terror and disgust.

            “God I hate foreplay.”

He reached for a nearby rag and stuffed it into his mouth. He gripped Claudia’s hips hard enough to leave bruises and nodded up at her. As she brought the torch down, his claws naturally extended and pierced her. She stifled a gasp by biting her tongue. He yelled into the rag and thrashed about, bucking wildly beneath her. The only thing keeping him steady was his hold on Claudia and her thighs clamped brutally to his sides. He thrusted violently, bucking her to get off, but at the same time holding her in place.

To an outside observer, it might have looked like rough, fiery sex, but neither of them were getting any pleasure from this. A strange sensation of both pain and temptation, yes….but not pleasure.

It didn’t take long for the fire to burn away the poison. Claudia shut off the torch and tossed it aside. The smell of burning flesh and hair filled the air. Peter collapsed on his back, breathing heavily and in rugged gasps, sounding as if he had just finished a marathon. Claudia reached down and quickly jerked Peter’s claws out of her thighs. It was better to rip it off like a Band-Aid rather than to wiggle them out. Having dated Peter, she was no stranger to being clawed “ _in the moment_ ”.

She rolled off of him and sat back against the nearest wall. Looking down at ruined sweats – puncture marks ringed with blood – she sighed.

“You owe me a pair,” she told him. Like him, she had to take a moment to get her breath back.

            “If we don’t hurry, there’ll be nothing left for me to owe you.” Peter sighed quietly. He rolled onto his side and painfully stood up. He reached his hand out to Claudia. She accepted it and he helped her up.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “The assassin with no mouth told me something before he left.” Peter stumbled over to his bedroom to find himself another shirt.

            Claudia was beginning to think she burned more than his chest hair. “How does a guy with no mouth say _anything?_ ”

            “Look pretty and follow me,” Peter ordered as he walked to the door

**McCALL FAMILY HOME**

            The party is winding down and people are filtering out. The boys were outside in the front yard bowling with a soccer ball and plastic lawn ordainments. Malia was near the food table; Lydia was with Kira’s parents talking about Adam; and Kira was scrolling through Pintrest with a couple of girls on the couch. John and Melissa went off to the back porch a while ago with some beers and birthday cake.

Derek had just rolled a strike when his cell phone began to ring. He had to get away from the whooping and cheering in his ear to hear anything when he answered the phone. He plugged his other ear and listened closely. What he was hearing wiped the smile off his face. He checked his watch before giving the other line a short answer.

He tucked the phone away and turned to the boys.

“Stiles, your mom called-”

“Does she want her jeans back?” Stiles joking scoffed, kicking the ball down the lane.

“She’s with _Peter_ , smart-ass.” Derek said. He pulled his jacket up from the ground and slung it on. Stiles was practically frozen. Derek ignored the hurt look on his face.

“That’s not funny.” Stiles pointed his finger at Derek.

“No. It’s not.” Derek pulled his keys out of his pocket and grabbed Stiles’ arm on his way down the driveway. He yelled over his shoulder to Scott, “You coming?”

**BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL**

            Derek, followed eagerly by Stiles, led Scott to the Hale family vault. Scott and Stiles expected this prized vault to be somewhere more….vault like. Like an actual bank and not their high school.

            Derek took them straight to the Beacon Hills High School stone sign.

            “Your family built a vault under a school?” Scott asked.

            “Vault was here first.”

           Derek extended his claws. On the side of the stone, there as an ornate circle. He stuck the claws in and a blue spark flashed. He turned it in a certain combination before the blue spark reappeared. He pulled back and the circle pushed into the stone. It was a lock. The stone slowly swung to the side revealing a cracked staircase that led a long way down.

            Stiles slightly shoved Derek out of the way to get down first. _By all means,_ Derek sarcastically waved his hand towards the entrance for Scott to go next.

Below, the vault looked like something out of a movie set – brick walls with dripping water, branching off a large platform was a walkway towards the center to where the most important treasures lie. Tragically kneeling at the base of the walkway, shoulders hunched over in defeat, was Peter Hale.

            “Mom?” Stiles called out, looking around. There was small pools of blood on the platform, water dripping from the pipes above mixed in with it. “Mom!”

            Derek walked past Stiles and to Peter. He nudged a couple of canisters. He bent over to pick them up. He sniffed.

            “Flash-bangs.” Derek tossed it to Scott. He turned to Peter. “What happened?”

            “Ambush,” a voice said from the top of the stairs. They turned and saw Claudia making her way down the stairs with a first-aid kit and a blanket. She had some scrapes and bruises, but what drew Stiles’ attention was the bloody marks on her thighs.

            “Mom,” He went over and hugged her.

            She patted his cheek and smiled. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

            “You were ambushed? By who?” Derek pressed.

            Claudia pulled away from Stiles to continue over to Peter. She knelt in front of him and cleaned the gashes on his arms.

            “Earlier this evening, a mute assassin planted a tomahawk in Peter’s chest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to kill him. He just wanted the keys.”

            “To the vault?” Scott asked.

            Derek shook his head. “No way. You need claws to open the lock. _Hale_ claws.”

            “He took your mother’s,” Claudia said softly. Derek’s chest puffed with anger. He looked around for something to hit. “After I took the axe out of Peter’s chest, we headed here. Big mistake.”

            “They were waiting for you.” Stiles said. “So they needed a _living_ Hale to open it.”

            Claudia nodded. “And we opened the door. They threw those canisters in when we got to the bottom. After that….” She shook her head. She cleaned up and disinfected all that she could. She wouldn’t waist the bandages on Peter seeing as how he’ll be fine in a couple hours. She wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and stood up. “After that it was fuzzy. Fighting and yelling and snarling. I’m surprised neither of us are dead.”

            “Did you see anything? Anyone?” Derek asked.

            “A man,” Peter whispered. He turned his head slightly to them, but kept his eyes focused on the elaborate chest at the end of the walkway. “A man in a black suit.”

            “Peter-”

            “They took it. They took it while I was blind….” Peter trailed off into incoherent muttering to himself.

            “Took what?” Scott asked. He took a step forward, but both Derek and Claudia shot their hands out to keep him back.

            Peter stopped muttering. He straighten up, dropping the blanket from around his shoulders, and stoop up. He did all this slowly, eerily. He turned to them like a cobra waiting to strike. “This was a _heist_ , child. Someone thought this out; someone _planned_ this.”

            “How much did they take?” Derek asked.

            “117,” Peter whispered painfully.

            “Thousand?” Stiles scoffed.

            “ _Million_!” Peter growled, eyes glowing murderously blue and barring his razor sharp teeth at the boy.


End file.
